Evergreen
by Azertyrobaz
Summary: AU story where the Doctor is a vet and Clara his neighbour. Drama, love, angst, and a happy end. This comes from my love of Doctor Who, science, dogs and - of all things - the Supervet.
1. Chapter 1

**Evergreen**

 _Gold light breaks behind the houses,  
I don't see what's strange about this.  
Tiny bubbles hang above me.  
It's a sign that someone loves me.  
I can hardly stand up right.  
I hit my head up on the light.  
I have faith but don't believe it.  
It's not there enough to leave it._

 _Everything I love is on the table._  
 _Everything I love is out to sea._

 _I have only two emotions,_  
 _careful fear and dead devotion._  
 _I can't get the balance right,_  
 _with all my marbles in the fight._  
 _I see all the ones I went for,_  
 _all the things I had it in for._  
 _I won't cry until I hear,_  
 _because I was not supposed to be here._

 _I'm not alone._  
 _I'll never be._  
 _And to the bone,_  
 _I'm evergreen._

(The National, _Don't Swallow the Cap_ )

* * *

It must have been on a Sunday that he saw her for the first time. After all, there weren't many other possibilities to find him wandering the beach during the day – not that he wandered the beach during the night, that would be weird, wouldn't it? Looking back, it was hard to remember the first thing that came to his mind when he came across her. Indifference? Mild curiosity? Surprise? People walking their dogs were fairly common, after all. But not so much in the middle of bloody freezing February at seven in the morning when the sun was barely kissing the horizon.

The Doctor was on his way home, with the firm intention of going straight to bed following a very long and tiresome night at the practice. But one, his back was killing him and he needed to stretch his legs. Two, Tardis, his six-year-old rough-coated Jack Russell Terrier was begging for a walk and three, he hadn't seen the sea in a while and he yearned for its soothing presence. Odd, for someone who had spent most of his life far from the ocean, he now missed it like crazy when they were separated for too long. He didn't need to go near the water. Just seeing it from afar and feeling its breath wash over his every pore was enough.

Now, though, he felt he had to come closer. His bed could wait. He was very conscious of the fact that the practice could call him any minute with an emergency, and he was losing precious time that he should spend sleeping. But the temptation was too strong. Sure, he could pretend that he was only curious about the dog, which Tardis had noticed before him. It was a beautiful fawn Briard. Young, by the look of things. Running around in circles around his owner. But he saw dogs at his practice every day. On the other hand, girls racing like crazy on the beach having intricate one-sided conversations with their pets were a rarer occurrence.

They were playing some kind of game, he could tell. Although he wasn't sure who was chasing who in that scenario. Tardis, who was showing even more curiosity at the spectacle than him, approached the duo and started running her own circles around the bigger dog. The girl had a hood over her head, and it was difficult to see her face or guess her age. From her quick movements and endurance though, the Doctor imagined she was in her early twenties.

Tardis was now saying hi to the Briard properly, and the Doctor was surprised to see that his owner was older than he had first thought. In her early thirties, he guessed. Still a good few years younger than him, that was for sure. She had laugh lines at the corner of her lips and eyes. This, he saw clearly when she smiled at him. A warm, earnest smile that immediately hooked him.

"Hi," she said, keeping her hands in her pockets to warm them. It was colder there, near the water. Especially when you weren't running like a lunatic with your dog.

She looked a bit uncomfortable. The Doctor surmised that she hadn't expected anyone to show up at 7AM on a Sunday morning to see her frolic about on the sand. He smiled to reassure her. Going a bit goofy around dogs - he could definitely relate, after all.

"Hi. That's a beautiful dog you have. I love Briards, although you don't see a lot of them."

"Thanks!" she beamed, clearly touched.

Their dogs had apparently become fast friends. Funny how it went like that, with dogs. With just a sniff, they knew whether they should keep away, simply say hi, or become the best buddies on planet Earth. If only it were so simple with humans…

She removed her hood since the sun was finally making a welcome appearance, and the Doctor was able to see her face better. And it was a very lovely face, no doubt. High cheekbones, brown almond shaped eyes, a small round nose and full lips.

"I don't think I've ever seen you before on the beach. I come every morning. Granted, I've only moved in a month ago…"

"Oh, you live around here?"

"Yeah, my house is over there," she replied, pointing vaguely towards Horsey. "It's a 15-minute walk across some fields, but it's nice."

Horsey was tiny, he wondered why he hadn't seen her before. But then she did say she had only been here for a month, and through quick but worrying mathematics, he realised that he had probably not stepped foot outside his house for close to a month, except to drive to and from his practice. And it wasn't like he did the weekly shopping around – he ordered everything to be delivered at the practice – or, Heaven forbid, went to Mass every Sunday. She didn't actually look like a church goer either, although that didn't mean much.

They walked a bit together in silence, watching their dogs playing by the water's edge and splashing themselves silly. Tardis would be covered in sand and he'd have to hose her down a bit. Oh, well. He didn't expect he'd be able to sleep much anyway.

"I'd better go and get some rest," she said after a while.

The Doctor nodded, too tired to realise that just because that's what _he_ was planning to do on a Sunday morning, it wasn't what any normal person would do.

"Yeah, I should go and do the same," he eventually replied.

"Late night partying?"

"I wish!" he laughed. "No, just working late. You?"

"Same."

She smiled. Call him a sap or an over indulger of poetry, but with the sun shining in her wind-swept hair, she looked heavenly. Her brown hair had red flecks that particularly caught the light and his lingering gaze. He hoped he didn't stare at her too much. It was good to be reminded that he could still appreciate a beautiful woman when he saw one. He wasn't completely dead yet.

"What are you doing here so early in the morning?" he asked.

"I'm a translator, I keep strange hours."

"Oh, that's nice! So you work from home?"

It wasn't every day you came across translators, so he was interested. A bit of originality in his life and the conversation would keep him awake until they made their separate ways. But they didn't. As she was telling him about the deadlines she had to meet for clients across the ocean, she turned right towards Horsey Corner instead of left.

"You live in Horsey Corner?" he asked in astonishment.

"Yeah, bought a small house there. It's tiny but lovely."

The Doctor stopped in his tracks.

"You're the new person who moved in by the Old Chapel guest house," he realised.

She stopped as well, their dogs continuing undisturbed since they knew the way well.

"How do you know that?" she asked, a bit mistrustful now.

"Horsey Corner is super small, everyone knows everyone," he explained. "I live right across from you. The white house on the left."

"Oh, you're the drug dealer!" she exclaimed.

"I'm the what?"

"Big house, black fancy car, only parks in the middle of the night a few days a week, never switches on any light inside…"

"And with all that your first thought was drug dealer?"

She shrugged, but didn't dissuade him. Or run away, that was always good.

"And now what do you think?" he asked, gesturing to his self. His unthreatening self – he hoped, at least.

"Well, I had never seen you before," she pointed out correctly.

"I'm almost never home," he admitted, "I usually sleep at work."

She looked puzzled by that answer, but didn't ask him to elaborate. Was he to remain the creepy – possibly dangerous – neighbour she'd do her best to avoid in the future? He certainly hoped not. To diffuse the atmosphere and, hopefully, better his chance at seeing her again, he started walking again slowly and explained his situation.

"I'm a vet. My practice is just outside Hickling. Not far from here, but I often end up sleeping there after surgeries."

Bingo, she liked him again. Never underestimate the power of the word "vet" with girls. Especially the ones who had pets. That was a cheap shot, but then he wasn't always above them. Most often than not, it didn't go anywhere – he was _hopeless_ in every other aspect of his life, after all – but at least he wouldn't antagonize his new neighbour the first time he met her.

"And I'm a night owl anyway, I'm at my best after midnight." A beat. Realising how it might have sounded. "For surgeries, I mean. I mostly do surgeries at night." He was in dire need of sleep. And shutting up, he definitely needed to shut up. He'd won her back, no need to scare her once more. But the Doctor couldn't help it: sleep deprivation plus new beautiful girl to impress, and he was on a roll. Talking a mile a minute about his practice, his passion, his work. Looking back, he couldn't for the life of him remember what he prattled about.

They were soon at her door, although they had passed his house first, and she waved him goodbye.

"Have a nice rest! Maybe I'll see you around, if you're not too busy."

So he had come off as a workaholic. What a surprise. He was, yes. Although his work wasn't just a job for him, it was his life. Still, she had an impish smile when she said that, so perhaps she hadn't bought all of his shit. Good. There was still hope she didn't see him as a complete egomaniac arsehole.

And that's when he realised he hadn't even asked her name. Or what she was doing in the middle of bloody nowhere in Norfolk. He'd just pontificated about his calling for science and animals. Good going there, Doctor. Not an egomaniac at all.

Sleep came surprisingly easily. And when he went back to the practice around four for his day's surgeries, he felt more refreshed than he should have been. He even managed to leave at a reasonable hour (meaning before midnight), and he couldn't help but watch out for the presence of his newly discovered neighbour when he arrived home. The lights were on, and he felt tempted to ring her doorbell, just for the hell of it and to prove a point. What point, he wasn't so sure. Instead, he went to bed at a decent hour and set his alarm clock for 6.30. If he got lucky, maybe he'd see her on the beach the next morning. And maybe he'd remember to ask for her name.

The Doctor did find out her name. As well as many other things about her, in the following weeks. He hardly managed to see her on the beach every morning, but on the days when his surgeries didn't last until three in the morning and nothing awful had happened to a pet that was brought to his practice, he'd be there. And they'd talk, whilst their dogs played and barked and caused mayhem. Their conversations were nothing to write home about and inconsequential, but they grounded him. They were a breath of fresh air from his day to day life at the practice, which he spent either worrying over some pets or assaulted by their owners' distress and, more often than not, anger. He couldn't save everyone, and whether the Doctor was the misplaced vessel of their grief or simply the quickest and nearest outlet for their rage, he'd found himself many a time wishing his calling had been for something else.

But it wasn't to be – saving animals and getting them out of pain was his vocation. He loved it and would keep on doing it until he keeled over – probably during a surgery, and probably sooner rather than later, at the rate he was going. Dealing with the clients' feelings was just part of the package. That being said, when he managed to fix a cat or a dog successfully, their happiness could fuel him for days. He'd feel like he was on top of the world until he came crashing down, beat by biology one more time, his ego left in tatters (as it should be).

Clara – for that was her name - didn't ask him a lot of questions about his work. Until one morning, after a particularly gruelling couple of days. Jack, his closest colleague, had ordered him to go home to get some rest around 6AM, but the Doctor knew sleep wouldn't come for him in his state, so he'd went to the beach instead, sans Tardis, who had remained at the practice, and sat down on the cold sand to wait for the sunrise. And Clara.

She did a double take when she arrived, as though she wasn't sure it was him. She got her dog off lead as she usually did, but instead of following him to the water's edge, she sat down on the sand next to him without a word.

"Where's Tardis?" she asked after a few minutes of silence.

"Left her at the practice. I'll be getting back soon enough. Just needed a wee break."

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

He was grumpy. He sounded grumpy even, and he hoped Clara didn't take it personally.

"No."

The Doctor watched her dog in the distance. Splashing, running around and barking at seagulls without a care in the world. It reminded him why he was doing the work he was doing. This dog was fine. This dog was alive and well and cared for.

"You never told me why you named your dog Mycroft."

There was reproach in his tone, as if it was something Clara should have explained a long time ago. But bless her, she didn't take this personally either. Or pointed out that he hadn't explained why his dog was called Tardis.

"My friend got a dog for her equestrian centre in Cornwall. She named him Sherlock, because she'd always wanted to have a dog called Sherlock. The other three dogs from the litter were supposed to go to a shepherd. But one of the pups was afraid of sheep so he was useless, the poor thing. So my friend took him in for a while but she couldn't handle two dogs. And I'd fallen in love with him at that point so I agreed to take him, even though I was living in a tiny flat in London at the time."

She still hadn't answered his question. Clara smiled in a non-condescending way – he didn't have to ask again - and it warmed him a bit.

"Mycroft is the name of Sherlock Holmes brother in the Arthur Conan Doyle's novels."

The Doctor finally nodded, the fact that the story behind her dog's name was so convoluted pleasing him, somehow. All was right with the world. People would keep on having pets and coming up with silly names for them. A simplistic view on life, but one that mattered to him on that particular morning.

He felt better, and didn't snap at her when she finally asked him how he was.

"I haven't seen you in a while, are you ok? Was it a bad one at the practice?"

"Make that several," he replied.

He breathed in deeply, and in fragments and broken sentences told her about the past few days. The pets that survived and the ones that didn't. The owners who hugged him and the ones who almost came to blows with him. The surgeries that filled him with joy and the ones that plunged him into despondency.

"I should come and visit your practice, one day. Not that Mycroft needs it. Just to see where it is and say hi. Hickling is just an hour walk's away, after all. It would make for a nice break during my day."

At the time, he thought it was a great idea. Yeah, he could definitely do with Clara coming around. He didn't know her well and had only met her a few weeks before, but talking with her definitely brightened his days. So seeing her at his practice, especially on a bad day, would be very welcomed indeed.

If only he'd known…


	2. Chapter 2

Life at the practice was business as usual. If anyone had commented on his marked un-grumpiness lately, then it hadn't reached his ears. The Doctor remembered hearing about the prowler, though. The strange man that had accosted some clients in the parking lot with questions about their dogs. He dismissed his presence as an eejit who couldn't find the way to the nearest pub, but did ask his head of security to keep an eye out. Looking back, he wished he'd done more than that. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, after all.

It was after his first surgery of the day. It must have been around six, and the late Winter sun had almost already set. The Doctor heard raised voices when he exited the operating theatre, and thought that an emergency had arrived. But it was a different kind of emergency, though it took him a while to understand.

"There's a dog injured outside," one of the nurses said.

He quickly divested himself of his gloves and gown to go check the animal quickly.

"It happened right here. The owner might be hurt to," another nurse said as she was hastily picking up some compresses and a blanket.

This gave him pause, but not for long. This was his practice, he was responsible, whatever had happened.

Two auxiliaries were now getting a stretcher and he followed them outside. What awaited him took a while to compute inside his brain. He tried to filter the different elements assaulting his senses. It was dark, and his eyes had a hard time adjusting. He recognised Jack and his head of security on the ground in front of him. He heard the whining of a dog to his left, voices speaking quickly but quietly and cries coming from whoever it was his colleague was attending to. So there were two dogs injured? He turned to check on the animal he had heard first on his left – it seemed to be in bad shape.

"Hey there, buddy," approaching cautiously. Dogs in pain could be violent.

He thought he saw blood on the light brown fur. His right leg seemed to be at a strange angle. They needed to get him inside so that he could examine him properly. As he was about to ask the auxiliary nurses to be careful with his neck while they used the stretcher to take him inside, he had a strange feeling of déjà vu. He'd treated countless dogs. Some even on his parking lot when they were too poorly to be moved straight away from their owners' cars. But there was something about this dog. He knew this dog. A Briard. Young. They didn't see many Briards. With dropped ears and a red collar.

 _Jesus, it was Mycroft, which meant… Where was Clara?_

The Doctor turned quickly, scanning the people who had gathered outside in the semi-darkness. _Where was she?_ _Why wasn't she next to her dog?_

Which was only when he realised that Jack and his head of security weren't attending to a dog but to a human. He shakily made the few meters that separated them and knelt down heavily on the hard concrete.

"Clara?" he struggled to say.

Her face was swollen. Her lip split, one eye half-closed, and she was curling up over her stomach.

"You know her?" he heard Jack say, but there was no time for that right now.

 _What the hell was she doing there? What had happened? Where the fuck were the paramedics? He was a vet for God's sake, he didn't know what to do._

Which wasn't entirely true. He could help her, which his colleagues were doing with careful movements to assert her injuries, and blankets to prevent the onset of shock. But at the moment he felt utterly useless. A trembling, bumbling moron who couldn't for the life of him do anything about the situation. Frozen in stupidity and awe.

He moved closer, trying to hide the fact that his hands were shaking.

"Clara, can you hear me?"

He couldn't tell if she was conscious.

"Paramedics are on the way," said Jack, answering one of his previous questions.

"Doctor?" a garbled sound.

Hearing her voice, he realised what she was doing there. _Oh, God, it's my fault. I told her she could come here._ _Oh, fuck. Oh, Jesus._

"Paramedics will be there soon, just keep still, it's okay."

Her good eye opened and it sent a shiver down his spine.

"My dog… Where's my dog? Where's Mycroft?" Laboured breathing, raspy breath. If he'd been less of an incompetent fool, he would have recognised the signs of chest injury.

"He's okay, he's okay," he replied, although it had been automatic. After all, he wasn't sure. He turned towards the Briard to check that the auxiliaries were still taking care of him. One of his interns had joined them, good. He turned back towards Clara who had followed his movements sluggishly.

"Help him, please help him," she said, a weak hand gripping his elbow.

The Doctor nodded. He would have agreed to anything at the moment. Nothing made sense.

Clara's hand was still trying to get his attention. "I'll pay, whatever it is, I'll pay. Just fix him, please."

How could she worry about money at a moment like this? He hushed her and tried to grip her hand, but she was slipping out of consciousness.

"Clara?" he pressed anxiously, just as sirens could be heard in the distance.

He clasped her hand harder and repeated her name, but she was out of it. He felt more than heard the paramedics approaching, and Jack telling him something about a dog. Taking care of a dog. What dog? And then he was standing, and Clara was put on a stretcher, and he remembered Mycroft.

The Doctor wanted to stay, but there was nothing he could do. He was just a vet. Just a bloody stupid vet. His hands were sticky and he saw blood on them. Was it from Mycroft? Clara?

"Go check on the dog." Jack again. The voice of reason in this world of madness and chaos.

Still, he couldn't move.

The ambulance's headlamps were on and he could only see Clara's hair from where he was. The red flecks caught in the unforgiving light.

"Go back inside."

There was another world inside. With sick pets, owners, vets, nurses. But no Clara. Clara was in _this_ world, in the parking lot. This outside world which didn't make sense. She didn't belong in that world. She belonged to sand and the ocean and laughter. To bright daylight and the roaring sea. To smiles that he thought were just for him and calming words.

Doors banging. The ambulance was off. And he was still standing there. Back to this reality he wasn't sure of.

The Doctor turned on autopilot and went inside. Mycroft was being anesthetized for x rays. The other vets hadn't waited for him to snap out of his trance to diagnose a probable hip dislocation and broken front leg. They also needed to check for internal bleeding before anything else. No point fixing his bones if he had internal damage. Until they knew, there was nothing the Doctor could do. The dog was in safe hands until he got his bearings back. And for that to happen, he needed to know what had gone on outside.

He found the man from security who had been outside. Although he looked shaken, the Doctor didn't have time to worry about his feelings.

"Tell me what happened," he ordered. "Were you outside?"

"I was, yeah. Near the entrance" Nervous, jumping from foot to foot with excess energy. "Then I heard raised voices further away, by the parking lot. By the time I got there, he'd run off. The bloke who'd got to her. Jack was on a fag break and he arrived at the same time."

"So no one saw it?"

"The camera outside must have caught part of it," he offered.

And yes, there was a CCTV camera outside, he now remembered. He had to see what had been filmed. Right now.

The police had arrived by the time the Doctor got the correct feed in the security room. Of course, the police. He hadn't thought about that. He really was useless. Thank Christ for the other people working in the practice. He spoke quickly to the officers, telling them what he'd witnessed, and they watched the footage together. The Doctor had already seen it a few times. You couldn't distinguish everything, but it clearly showed a man trying to grab Clara's dog on the parking lot and her defending herself. The man struck her hard on the face, twice, she fell, and her dog jumped to protect her. The assailant got his arm bitten and harshly pushed Mycroft to the ground with a few kicks in for good measure. He seemed to hesitate then kicked Clara as well. The officers hissed, but the Doctor didn't. The footage was playing in an incessant loop in his mind already.

Striking her face. Hitting her dog. Kicking them both once they were on the ground. On repeat. Again and again and again.

"The dog bit him, he might check in to an A&E department somewhere, we'll have a look at that."

"Do you know where she was taken? Clara?" the Doctor asked, suddenly remembering that he didn't even know.

"Northgate Hospital, in Yarmouth, I heard. But they might air-lift her to Norwich if she has brain trauma, they're not sure."

 _Jesus_. All that when she had just wanted to take a walk to his practice.

He excused himself quickly, the state of her dog now at the forefront of his mind. There was nothing he could do for Clara at the moment, but she expected him to fix her friend. And that was the only thing he was good at.

He checked the results of the x rays and scans, Jack appearing next to him. He'd be taking care of the thoracic surgery if he needed one, whilst he would repair the broken bones afterwards.

"You know her." The first thing his colleague said to him. Not a question, a statement of fact.

"Yeah, she's my new neighbour. I've seen her around a few times."

Jack didn't ask anything else but surmised that there was probably more to it. The night would be long, so he'd save his remarks for another time.

Thankfully, Mycroft didn't have internal bleeding and wouldn't require thoracic surgery. But it would take the Doctor most of the night to repair his dislocated hip and reorder the fragments of his broken front leg, which had suffered an open fracture.

"Call Northgate Hospital, keep me posted on the owner," he instructed an auxiliary nurse before going into theatre. "Come and tell me as soon as you have news."

He was two hours into surgery, putting on a new hip for Mycroft when Amy, one of his interns, came to tell him Clara's MRI was negative for brain trauma. He breathed a sigh of relief and carried on, the hours blurring. It took five hours in total for him to be satisfied that he had done all he could. New hip, countless screws, plates and pins, and a metallic frame to keep the bone fragments in alignment.

Whilst he waited for the post-op x rays, he asked if the police had called to let them know if they'd caught Clara's attacker yet. No news on that front. Mycroft's results looked good enough, and he sent a silent prayer to his owner. _When was the last time he'd prayed?_

Instead of agreeing with Jack that his remaining scheduled surgeries could wait, he went ahead and operated on a Great Dane's spine and a cat left knee. Everyone but the Doctor thought he was trying to prove a point.

The only thing that eventually stopped him from starting on the next day's surgeries was a nurse telling him Mycroft had a hard time quieting down in kennels. He'd need to be calm throughout the night and the following days and weeks for his bones to heal, so he wasn't taking this piece of news lightly.

The Briard was whining pitifully, although he should have been high on drugs still. Rory, a nurse who could soothe an over-excited hyena if need be, was petting him continuously and whispering reassuring words. Listening to him, he got an idea and asked if Amy was still there.

"Can you do a Lancashire accent?"

His intern gave him a blank look, but did as she was told.

"Hey there Mycroft, you good dog, it's alright _…_ "

After a while, it seemed to do the trick, and Amy looked up at him, impressed.

"She's from Blackpool. I thought it might work," he shrugged.

"Amy, you are now Mycroft's official round the clock carer, you hear?" he was only half-joking, and his intern nodded.

It was around four when he finally made his way to his office and adjacent bedroom. Tardis was sleeping soundly on his bed, and he didn't bother her, although seeing her unharmed and well unlocked something in his chest and he felt a few tears rolling down his cheeks. He curled up over the covers next to her and closed his eyes.

Barely a few hours later, following a short and restless sleep, he checked on Mycroft first thing. He'd had a peaceful night, assured him Amy, whom he sent home. The poor lass hadn't left his side, taking her boss's words to heart.

Shower, coffee, then he called Northgate Hospital himself. Since he wasn't a family member, he couldn't be given a precise update on Clara's condition, but he got confirmation that her state hadn't worsened and that she'd be kept under observations for a couple of days at least.

Jack appeared in his office as he was checking his emails for patients' lab results. They were due a conversation, he knew. One he might not particularly enjoy.

"How's your neighbour's dog?" he asked.

The American vet had gone home at some point, and looked ready to face a new day. The Doctor, on the other hand, felt like he hadn't slept at all in the past week. Nothing new on the horizon there, that was a general feeling he was living with – always a few winks behind everybody else.

"Pretty well, considering," he replied.

He wouldn't make the first step. If Jack wanted to know something about Clara, he'd have to ask it himself.

"And the owner, any news?"

The Doctor nodded, and relayed what he had learned from his call to the hospital.

"What happened last night?"

Never one to beat around the bush, his right-hand man.

The Doctor shrugged. "You saw what happened. Someone attacked a dog and his owner and vanished into thin air. They both got injured. We treated the dog for hip dislocation and an open fracture. He's recovering in kennels but will need extensive hydro and physio."

"What happened to you, I mean. Your reaction outside. I'd never seen you like that before."

Jack seemed worried. He'd seen him fail surgery before. Seen him feel despondent and worthless for days as a result. But this…

The Doctor l looked everywhere but at his friend. He was still coming to grips with the previous evening. In the cold light of day, the only thing he felt about the whole situation was tremendous guilt. Clara should never have come to the practice. He hadn't taken the report of the prowler lingering around seriously enough and she had paid the price. He'd never forgive himself for that. And if her or her dog had any lasting damage from the ordeal… He wondered what he would do. It was too dreadful to envision but quite possible, after all.

"How long have you known her? When you saw her outside last night, it was like…"

"Like what?" the Doctor pressed, wanting to hear it, just to be sure.

"Like you knew each other really well," Jack added, choosing to remain vague.

The Doctor laughed dejectedly.

"She's just my neighbour, I've only met her some weeks ago on the beach when I was walking Tardis. We've talked a few times, she's…" he couldn't find the right word.

"Nice," he settled on saying after a few seconds.

Jack didn't look convinced, so the Doctor tried to elaborate, even though his weariness prevented him from voicing his scattered thoughts comprehensively.

"It's like when we have to treat one of our own pets, you know? The personal mixing with the professional. It's scary. I just couldn't reconcile it. It was like an error in the continuum of things somehow. That's why I felt so out of it. So…lost, for a while. Sorry if I seemed weird."

"Like an intrusion of the personal in the professional?"

"Aye."

"Are you sure you're not saying that because your personal life is…"

"Non-existent?" the Doctor ventured.

A tentative nod from his colleague.

It wasn't meant to be an insult, and the Doctor didn't take it that way. Jack was right, after all. He couldn't explain his reaction. The utter unnaturalness of it.

"Maybe," he conceded.

Jack seemed satisfied by that answer. For the time being.

"Are you going to go visit her? At he hospital?"

"Do you think she'd want me to?"

"She'd probably want to know how her dog is doing at least, yeah."

It seemed reasonable. So why did he feel so strongly against it? Was it guilt over what had happened, or something else? Coming face to face with the result of his incapacity to prevent everything? Or with his innate inability to acknowledge his feelings?


	3. Chapter 3

Visiting hours for non family members were quite restricted at the hospital, so the Doctor moved a few consultations the next day to arrive just after lunch time. The nurses – as well as several auxiliaries, two secretaries and a handful of vets – had suggested (more like ordered) that he should get her flowers. And chocolates. And cuddly toys. And various other silly things he couldn't for the life of him see himself bringing to her. So he settled on the first suggestion, flowers, that he obviously hadn't chosen himself. He wondered if he should include the card he had started to write in his head during the drive: 'Dear Clara, sorry about the assault on you and your dog at our practice. Get well soon, from the TARDIS team. PS: Please don't sue us.'

Her room had two beds, but the one next to her was empty. The view was depressing and the sky overcast, yet the walls were painted a nice yellow that somehow helped. She still had a tray with dreadful looking food that hadn't been touched close at hand. As he was contemplating counting the tiles on the ceiling, he finally found the courage to look at her directly.

"Hi."

Her right cheek was bandaged, her eye still mostly closed, and the rest of her face was puffy and bruised. She was sitting against pillows quite stiffly, and he imagined that her ribs were either taped or painful or both.

"Hi," she replied, and the Doctor was pleased to hear that her voice sounded the same as usual.

He smiled tightly, and remembered the flowers he was holding. Biting his tongue to prevent himself from blurting out an underwhelming apology, he placed them next to her tray of untouched food.

"The nurses will give me hell about that," she said, pointing at the mush of…meat? Vegetables? Fruits? It could have been anything, and he certainly wouldn't be caught eating that either.

"I need to eat if I want to get out of this place. But the eating isn't the problem," Clara sighed, slightly out of breath now.

She certainly put up a good fight, but he didn't think she was ready to leave the hospital just yet.

"How are you?" he asked, then quickly cursed himself, "sorry, stupid question."

He thought he saw a smile, but it was hard to guess.

"How's my dog?" she countered

The Doctor sat down on the chair next to her bed, and Clara interpreted this move as a bad sign.

"Oh God…" she started, a hand reaching for her mouth then wincing when it came into contact with her bandage.

"No, no!" he tried to reassure her, his own hand flying to her shoulder before he caught himself. "He's good, he's recuperating from surgery and everything is as fine as can be."

Clara closed her good eye for a couple of seconds and exhaled audibly.

He tried to be as comforting as possible when he explained the surgery, but she still looked horrified at his descriptions.

"A new hip?"

"Don't worry, it's very common, I do it all the time. Mycroft will be fine after some rehabilitation."

"When can I come and pick him up?"

"We need to keep an eye on him to make sure there no post-op infection, and he needs to be able to start using his hip before we begin physiotherapy. In a week, I'd say. And he'll need regular check-ups after that. Plus hydrotherapy. He should be good as new in six to eight weeks."

"Hydrotherapy?"

"Yeah, we got a pool at the practice."

"State of the art, that place you got."

"Yeah, very fancy," he agreed.

Clara shifted on the bed, and he saw her clenching one of her fists. She was clearly in pain but wouldn't say it. She was putting such a brave front and asking about her dog when she should be focusing on her own health.

"I can come back on another day or call you later if you…"

"No, no. Tell me more about the treatments Mycroft will need. I want what's best for him."

"Of course."

"I'll pay for whatever it costs, I just want him to have the best outcome, it's not his fault."

"It's not your fault either, Clara…"

"It's…"

"…and you're not paying for a thing. He'll get the best treatment there is, trust me," he interrupted.

"What are you talking about? Why wouldn't I pay?"

"It's my practice, I make the decisions," the Doctor replied firmly.

He was afraid his tone had been too harsh. _Good going, just assault her verbally, she won't mind._ But Clara didn't startle and lifted her lip in a semblance of a smile.

"It's your practice alright, you could have warned me, Mr Big Shot 'I have my own practice with the name of my dog on the side of the building and on scrubs and everything'," she said, pointing at the scrubs he was wearing (he hadn't had time to change), which indeed had the name of the practice on the pocket.

The Doctor could feel the tip of his ears going red. With his pale skin, it was impossible for her not to have noticed.

"Why did you call your dog after your practice?" she asked.

"It's the other way around, actually. I called the practice after my dog. TARDIS is an anagram. It stands for 'Treatment for Animals: Rehabilitation, Daytime clinic, Imagery and Surgery'."

Clara made an approving sound.

"Impressed?" he tried for nonchalance, quite possibly risking ridicule.

"Maybe a bit," she conceded, half-serious. The Doctor would definitely focus on that half in the future.

"I didn't expect that kind of place, though, I must say. When you told me you were a vet, I thought…"

"Your regular small town clinic, treating grannies' cats and such."

"Yeah, that. But it looked like a factory almost, your place. It was huge!"

The Doctor sniggered. Yeah, it did feel like a factory, sometimes.

"We converted an old farm to build the practice. I was looking for a cheap place somewhere in the countryside, not too far from London, but close to the sea. We've got patients from all over. There aren't many veterinary practices with an MRI scanner and a hydrotherapy pool."

"I bet," she replied, her hands gripping the covers tightly now.

"Do you want me to call someone?"

"I'm fine," she replied, teeth set.

He wanted to tell her that it was okay for her to admit she was in pain. That she didn't have to pretend otherwise for his sake. But she was stubborn, this girl.

"When do they expect you to be able to leave?"

"I'm frankly tempted to check myself out, but my mum would roll over in her grave if I did that, so I won't."

Her mum had been a nurse, he knew. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why they seemed to get on so well. They both had a lot of respect for science.

"Don't you have a friend who could come and help you out for a few days? Or a family member?"

"I can't bother my father with that, he's just recovering from his own hip operation. Talk about serendipity. Both my dog and my dad now have artificial hips."

The Doctor knew that about her family as well. Funny all the little titbits he had managed to acquire in the few times they had talked together on the beach. It didn't feel like they were sharing much, then. But now through this understanding he had of her, it allowed him to come to another conclusion.

"You haven't told anyone about what happened," he inferred.

Clara sighed, although he had been careful not to sound too accusatory.

"It looks worse than it is. It's just some bruising, I'll heal."

She'd heal alright, she was determined and young. Still, he didn't think not talking about it with anyone was the way to go. But hey, he was the last person who'd throw stones at her. He'd tried therapy for a while. A while being three months – he got fed up sitting and bitching about his life when he could do something about it instead. Something like helping animals. Nowadays, he would empty his head when it got a bit too much by driving his motorcycle too fast or going to rock concerts.

"Doctor?" she started after a few seconds of silence, and he could tell it was important.

"Last night, when…"

"When you were attacked?" he offered.

"Yeah, when that man tried to take Mycroft from me and I said no, that he couldn't have him…"

 _So that's what had happened? The prowler had wanted to steal her dog?_

"He hit me, I remember that, and I tried to defend myself, but…"

"Of course you couldn't!" he was quick to point out.

"No, it's not that. Mycroft intervened. He bit the man, hard. He growled and became vicious. I'd never seen him like that."

"He was defending you."

"I know that. But is it normal? Is Mycroft okay, now? Or is he going to be violent again?"

It was interesting that Clara would focus on that. Worry about the reaction of her dog. But then, she'd seen him in a new light and she was scared for him. That was natural.

The Doctor smiled and leaned his elbows on the bed so that he could be closer to her.

"He's your mate and he got scared, that's all. He wanted to protect you. That's just his instinct. He's not a violent dog. He's been on his best behaviour at the practice and everybody loves him."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah, I can assure you he'll break some hearts when you come and pick him up."

It was hard to tell with the inflammation, but he thought her cheeks looked pinker.

Soon after that, a nurse came in to tell them Clara needed to be taken for some x rays and that he needed to leave. It actually came as a relief – Clara would never say so, but she clearly needed rest. He promised to call to give her news about her dog every day, and that she could come and visit as soon as she was out.

The following week passed slowly. The Doctor went by his place once to pick up some clean clothes, but otherwise spent all his days and most of his nights awake working. He kept Clara abreast of her dog's progress everyday by phone. Sometimes twice a day when he managed to catch a break. Mycroft was healing well, and had taken his first steps outside on his new hip and repaired front leg two days after his surgery, a day before Clara was released from the hospital.

It didn't become apparent to the Doctor until late during the week, following numerous assurances from his part that she could come and visit, that Clara didn't feel safe coming back to the practice. And he felt like such a fool when he finally realised it. _Of course she wouldn't, you eejit. She's been viciously attacked on your front step and you expect her to show up as if nothing happened?_

She didn't say it in so many words, of course. But each time she had a different excuse – a nurse is coming to check up on me, it's getting late, I'll interrupt your surgeries, my doctor said I shouldn't drive yet, a taxi will take hours to come and pick me up. At one point, the Doctor even took it personally. Maybe the girl just didn't want to see him. And of course, with an ego as big as his, that would be the one thing that came to his mind – _me, me, me_.

What finally clinched it was when she asked him if there was another parking lot at the back of the building. And yes, there was one for employees, but why would she want to use that one? She pretexted another call then, and abruptly hung up. The Doctor remained unmoving for a while, his phone in the air, whilst he recalled their conversation. When it hit him, he grumbled loudly, and lowered his head to the desk, banging it hard once, just as Jack knocked.

"Boss?"

"Just kill me, Jack. Kill me."

"Sure. Shall I get a scalpel or would you rather I tried something more creative?"

"Anything will do, as long as it's quick," he moaned. "Or no, better yet – make it slow and painful, I deserve that."

Jack sat down on the rickety sofa that had almost completely disappeared under the mountains of files and scholarly articles that had been precariously piled on top of it.

"What's going on?" his right-hand man asked more seriously.

"I'm a bloody moron."

"With you so far. What else?"

The Doctor finally put the plastic receiver down, scratched his two-day stubble and rubbed at his eyes hard, until he saw red spots, and looked at his colleague blearily.

"I've been telling Clara for days that she can come to visit her dog, and it just dawned on me that she didn't particularly wish to see this place again."

Jack looked at him sadly, as you would look at a grown man who'd suddenly forgotten how to tie his own shoelaces one morning. At least that's what he thought Jack looked like, it was hard to tell with the black dots still dancing in front of his eyes. Maybe he was proud of him, instead. Proud that it had only taken him _6 days_ to come to that conclusion.

"Did she tell you that?" the younger vet asked.

"Well, no. But I _think_ that's what she meant."

"Girls can be very mysterious," Jack concurred. The Doctor didn't need good visual acuity to understand that he was joshing him.

"Would you be so kind as to impart your great wisdom to dear old me?"

"Well, in my _very great_ experience, it's become apparent to me, after years and years of extensive research…"

"Yes?" he was really milking it, now.

"…that girls are the most complicated beings in the whole of this universe and the next, probably."

"Oh."

"And that you can't possibly hope to understand them."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Pity." The Doctor concluded, with a sympathetic nod from Jack.

"That being said, you don't _have_ to understand her. You could simply take the dog to her. Kill two birds with one stone. She sees her dog, you see her."

Once again, this sounded extremely reasonable. She was his neighbour. It would be very simple to bring Mycroft to her house. Her dog was missing her. She was missing her dog. And yeah, maybe he was missing her a little bit, too.


	4. Chapter 4

It turned out not be so simple to bring Mycroft to Clara. The Doctor eventually decided to make the short journey during what should have been his lunch break – but was really him catching up with patients results whilst eating whatever he could lay his hands on – a couple of days later. The first problem arose when he had to put said Mycroft in his car. He'd enlisted the help of two trustworthy nurses, who didn't ask questions when they saw their boss leaving the practice in the middle of the day with a still recuperating dog, but would clearly be talking about the experience amongst themselves later.

The Doctor wasn't prone to gossiping, though ever so often he wondered what his staff thought about him. Some didn't hesitate to let him know. Jack, of course. And Donna, one of the receptionists who spent half her time pestering him to get a wife already, and the other half thanking Heaven that no woman was required to tolerate him.

Once parked across from her place, the second problem dawned on him. For reasons that he couldn't explain, he had chosen not to warn Clara of his coming in advance. Worry that she'd refuse or to prevent unrealistic expectations, he didn't know. Probably something else, though. So it wasn't completely impossible that she would simply not be home. Which was why he elected to knock first and leave Mycroft in the car. No point carrying the dog if no one was there.

Nothing moved for a whole minute and he was certain he'd made a stupid mistake. _Maybe she was back at the hospital for a check-up, maybe she was at the grocers, maybe she was asleep, maybe she was in but didn't feel like opening the door, maybe she'd seen who it was and didn't want to speak to him, maybe she was on the Moon._

Finally, once the Doctor thought he had exhausted all reasonable and not so reasonable explanations, the door opened.

"Hi."

"Doctor!" she looked surprised at his presence, but not against it.

Her face was tons better – maybe some makeup was helping? – and the bandage had gone. The right side was still clearly more inflamed than the other, but when he told her that he'd brought Mycroft for a visit, there was no mistaking her smile.

He carried the dog inside, being careful of his healing limbs, and placed him on a shaggy rug Clara pointed out to him shakily in her front room. It was a difficult process, with Mycroft having clearly recognised that he was home, his tail wagging like crazy. Not for the first time, the Doctor wondered if this had been a wise idea. But the ensuing scene disproved that notion.

Tears, cries, ecstatic yaps, broken words, belly rubs and exuberant licks.

Clara was torn between sharing her joy with her pet and shushing him to keep him calm. She could see the bandages and frames and knew without the Doctor reminding her that Mycroft couldn't jump for fear of breaking his repairs. He helped her restrain her dog and after a while both had exhausted themselves silly and were contentedly resting on the rug, Mycroft's head in her lap enjoying languid strokes.

She'd had eyes only for her dog ever since he'd carried him inside, but now she finally raised her gaze to him, sitting on the other side of the Briard, his back against the coffee table. The adoration he saw there, aimed at her dog – he was pretty sure at least – staggered him. Almost every day he witnessed the love an owner had for his or her pet. And each day it devastated him. In a good way, mind. But still, it was always a lot to take in. He knew love like this was possible between humans, but it rarely affected him so strongly. The Doctor guessed that was why he was a vet. And single.

"He looks so well!" she marvelled, "I thought he would be poorly still. But he can walk!"

"He's not healed yet. His bones need to set. According to him, he's fixed. But if he were to run across the beach he'd break all his plates."

Clara nodded. He knew it was torture for her not having her dog around, but he still needed a good few weeks of rehabilitation to let his bones and muscles time to heal.

"He's not ready to come home," she inferred sadly.

The Doctor chose not to tell her that in most cases, dogs could do that part of the healing with their owners, but they needed attention and careful walks. From the way she was stiffly resting her back against the sofa, he could tell that she wouldn't be able to hold Mycroft back if he wanted to escape the lead. He was a strong dog. It would break her heart if he told her that. And since money wasn't an issue – he'd keep Mycroft in kennels with regular physio and hydro at the practice as long as necessary and Clara wouldn't pay for a thing – he offered her a white lie.

"Give him a few more weeks. Once new bone will have started to grow around my repairs, he'll be all set, I promise."

She sighed and buried her face against her dog's neck.

"I know he's getting the best care," she said after a while, and it gave him a very warm and welcomed feeling. It was always good to be trusted, though the weight it put on his shoulders could sometimes be heavy to bear indeed.

"I had no idea not being from around here and everything, but you and your practice have got quite the reputation," she started, her eyes following her pet's movements. "I was talking with one of the nurses at the hospital, and when I told her my dog was at the TARDIS she mentioned how famous you were, I was stunned."

"It's not really…"

"I couldn't believe it. My neighbour, the star vet. So I…" A beat. "I googled you," she admitted, as though she'd just confessed to an unforgiveable sin.

"Oh."

Was that good or bad? He couldn't tell. He tried not to let his reputation go over his head. He was under enough pressure as it was, and it would become impossible to check his ego at the door of the operating theatre every day.

From her pink cheeks and embarrassed smile when she finally deigned to look up at him, it was pretty bad indeed, then.

"I had no idea, I'm sorry."

"Whatever are you sorry for?" he asked, perplexed.

"I don't know," she realised. "But I feel as though should have known that about you, somehow."

"What does it matter? I'm not some superhuman, I'm only a vet. The practice just treats more patients than most, and more complicated cases, because we've invented some new techniques along the way to fix what used to be difficult to fix," he summarised briefly, setting aside his degrees, endless years of study and dozens of articles, "that's all."

Clara shrugged, but she hadn't dropped her gaze, yet. And her eyes had a look in them that made him sweat under the collar of his scrubs. Like when a teacher would ask him a question in class during his youth and he wouldn't know the answer – as he was wont to. A very sexy teacher, granted. But still. Not an overly comfortable feeling, that was for sure.

"I can't thank you enough for bringing Mycroft, it's wonderful to see him and I missed him like you wouldn't believe."

"Of course," he replied, as though home visits were something he did often.

"I'm getting a bit restless on my own, and I don't go out much anymore," she admitted in a small voice, and the Doctor wondered if the only reason she didn't go for walks lately was because of her injured state, her dog not being there, or something else. Something like her attacker not having been caught yet. He couldn't blame her, and he couldn't help the guilt that assailed him once more. _If only she hadn't been there that night._

"You need to get back?" she asked when she saw him check his watch discreetly a few minutes later. Her dog was still wagging his tail like crazy and she hadn't tired of petting him and whispering silly endearments to him yet. He felt bad for having to separate them, but he did have numerous surgeries waiting for him.

"Yeah, sorry," he replied.

"Have you eaten?" she asked out of the blue, "Or are you going to stop by your place across the road?"

"Hum…" There was no point telling her that he often skipped lunch and that his fridge at home was probably depressingly empty.

"You have five minutes?" she inquired, and without waiting for an answer she was up, leaving Mycroft with him and disappearing to the nearby kitchen.

"I've got ham and lentils soup from last night, I'll just warm you a bowl," she announced.

The Doctor didn't have the heart to refuse, and home cooked food actually sounded pretty nice.

He shushed the dog and petted him so that it wouldn't be tempted to follow his owner, and observed Clara's place, since he hadn't had the leisure to do so yet.

It was small, yes, but he couldn't believe she'd only moved in a couple of months ago. It looked more lived in and cosy than his own house, although he'd been there for years. After all, he was rarely around, and it had become just a place to put the stuff he'd accumulated over time.

A counter separated the front room-slash-living room from the kitchen on the left, and on the right he could see opened double doors leading to a sunlit office with bookcases, a desk on which a recent computer and two screens rested, and a nice view onto the back garden. There were stairs heading to the upper level, which presumably had at least one bedroom. Like his place, she probably had a nice view of the sea from up there. All in all, a small but lovely house. Decorated with taste in white, blues and soft greys. Miles away from his bigger but strictly functional home.

"Doctor?" he heard from the kitchen, "Could you help me reach…"

"Sure," he promptly replied, walking her dog carefully to the tiled kitchen over to his basket where he immediately curled up.

Clara was standing on her tiptoes, and her top had ridden up. The Doctor couldn't help but look at the skin that was revealed. It was clearly black and blue in numerous spots still. His gaze must have lingered too much, because she hastily dropped down and smoothed her hands over her T-shirt.

"Blue's not my colour," she said to diffuse the heavy atmosphere.

It took the Doctor a few seconds to understand that she was talking about her bruises.

"You look beautiful," he didn't stop himself from saying.

"Yeah?" a smile, barely there, but mischievous. He could play this game.

"Yes. You're still the most beautiful woman in the whole region."

"The Great Yarmouth region?"

"Might reach the County."

A real grin this time.

"That bowl there?" he asked, breaking the moment but knowing it was the best thing to do.

"Yep, thanks," she replied. And he could tell that the 'thanks' didn't only cover reaching for dishes. His reassurance had been welcomed.

The food was great, and he had seconds, and even a slice of cake. It was sad, but the Doctor couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten so well, or took the time to appreciate what he was eating, even. The knowing look on Clara's face told him she'd reached the same conclusion. _Oh dear_ , he hoped he wouldn't become 'that poor bloke across the street who could go with a good meal every now and again'. That would be sad indeed.

"I'll wrap some cake for you in tinfoil so that you can have some tonight," she decided, and once more the Doctor knew she wouldn't take no for an answer.

She walked him to his car to say goodbye to her dog, and although the separation was visibly hard for the both of them, she looked definitely better at having seen him.

"He'll have his first session of hydrotherapy at the end of the week on Friday, and I thought you might want to be there. It's always better when the owners are present in case the animal gets a bit scared. Although since I know he loves water, it shouldn't be a problem."

He had decided that it wouldn't hurt to try. Clara looked unsure.

"You can park in the employees' lot at the back and I can meet you there, we'll go to the pool together, I really don't mind," he added, hoping he hadn't been too pushy.

She lowered her shoulders. "You must think I'm stupid, not wanting to go."

"Of course not."

"And it's not you, and yes, I would love to be there…"

Not wanting to force her to say that she was too anxious to come, he quickly added, "Look, it's really okay. Just call me if you want to be there, and don't worry if you can't."

She nodded, still clearly unconvinced, but at least she hadn't said no.

The slice of cake Clara had set aside for him turned out to be the only thing he had the time to eat that night, in between two surgeries. When he checked his phone one last time around three in the morning before lying down on the small bed by his office, he saw that he had a new text. Clara was asking him at what time she should arrive for the hydrotherapy session on Friday. The Doctor smiled.

"See Tardis?" he told his sleeping dog, "I've still got it."


	5. Chapter 5

Friday afternoon. As promised, he met her in the parking lot at the back of the practice. The weather had been pretty crap, lately – Spring was refusing to make itself known – but the Doctor managed to escape getting completely drenched before Clara showed up in her blue Ford Fiesta.

She still looked good – hell, she always did – though she walked quite stiffly. But it might have been apprehension rather than her healing cracked ribs. They walked side by side after rushed hellos to the indoor hydrotherapy pool, where Mycroft and a couple of physiotherapists would meet them. The Doctor didn't always attend sessions, but he thought he should at least be there for the first one, just to check that his patient was handling it well. And to make sure Clara was okay, he could own up to that.

"It's just like a regular pool," Clara realised.

"Of course. And it's saltwater."

"Is that because it's better for their skin? Or is it to avoid dogs smelling like chlorine?" she joked.

"Well, the dogs haven't complained yet," he replied in a similar tone.

Clara smiled, but the Doctor realised it was a bit forced. She was trying to mask her nervousness and it was almost working. Thankfully, the wetsuit-wearing physiotherapists arrived with Mycroft, and she didn't have to pretend that she was happy to be there anymore. She greeted her dog happily and once he was equipped with a harness and float coat, they started working on building back the Briard's muscles under water. Clara and him remained on the side of the pool, and the Doctor was glad to see that Mycroft didn't need much encouragement - he was used to swimming in the sea, after all. This wasn't always the case, especially with cats, who were often dreadful hydrotherapy patients. They weren't obviously doing this treatment for no reason – pets healed better and faster after a few sessions.

As usual, the Doctor had a backlog of surgeries waiting for him, but he stayed for the whole hour. He was pleased to hear Clara confirming she'd be there for the following sessions when the physio asked. Amy and Rory came by to take Mycroft back to kennels, and spoke to Clara for a few minutes. She was touched to see that her dog was well liked by the staff, and thanked them profusely for looking after him. Amy asked about her own health, and Clara assured her she was much better. It hadn't escaped anyone at the practice that this case was quite personal for their boss, although no one had asked said boss precisely why. The rumour mill was probably running wild, thought the Doctor.

He walked her back to her car – the rain had thankfully stopped – understanding implicitly that it was appreciated on his part.

"That was interesting. Seeing him in the pool made me think that I'd probably benefit from something like that, although I'm not sure that's covered by my insurance… Are you sure you really don't want me to pay for anything? I can, you know."

"Don't worry," he replied quickly to dismiss her misgivings.

A frown then a nod.

"How are you?" he felt compelled to ask. It was obvious that for all her bravado, she now seemed pretty tired. He wasn't sure if it was stress over the experience of coming back here, or something else.

"I'm fine," she automatically replied.

"Getting enough sleep?" the Doctor pressed.

A shrug this time. "Enough. I'm not a big sleeper anyway."

This wasn't very reassuring, but it wasn't his place to pry and he had done so enough. As stubborn as she was, it would probably take hours for her to admit that anything was wrong, and he unfortunately didn't have that kind of time.

"Have you eaten?" she countered, opening her car door.

Fair enough. And point to her there, he had to admit.

"I can meet you back here on Monday for the next hydro session," he offered to change the subject.

"You don't have to. I'll be okay on my own."

"I don't mind. I might not be able to stay for the whole hour, but it's nice to talk to you."

The Doctor had gone to the beach a couple of times in the past week, thinking she might still go despite not having her dog with her. She'd been a no show, unsurprisingly, and he did miss their conversations, as trivial as they were.

Just as she was about to leave, he remembered to thank her through her opened window for the slice of cake she had given him the last time he saw her. The small smile she gave him as a reply was the only truly genuine reaction he'd gotten from her today.

He kept replaying the scene in his head during the following days. Was there anything more he could have done or could do for her? Was she being honest when she said she was fine? She didn't look fine, and the fact that her lights were still on at 3 AM on Saturday night when he came home tended to prove his assumption right. The Doctor hesitated checking up on her and ring her doorbell, but couldn't decide if it would be a good idea. Perhaps she'd forgotten to switch off the lights. Perhaps she was working on a translation. Yet somehow, he didn't think so. And he vowed to do his best to have her dog returned to her as soon as possible. Having him back would probably fix everything, right?

The Doctor didn't have time to revisit his decision the next day, since he was called on an emergency early Sunday morning that kept him busy until Monday. By then, he was looking forward to two things – his bed (hopefully), and seeing Clara that afternoon for Mycroft's hydrotherapy session. As he was catching up on his emails in his office during lunch hour with Tardis on his lap, Jack appeared. He hadn't seen much of the American vet in the past few days, and although most of their discussions had lumberingly revolved around Clara and his ineptitude where she was concerned lately, he missed their easy camaraderie.

"Please tell me you're not here to ask for some time off. I'll have to find a way to clone myself to handle all the current workload," the Doctor said, seeing that his right-hand man was ineffectively trying to get comfortable on his office's sofa.

"Well, they did manage to clone sheep. You're not far off," Jack cheekily supplied, pointing at his boss's curly hair.

The Doctor pretended to be insulted. But then, it was true he was due a haircut. Had been due for about a month, now. Or a shave, now that he thought about it. He did feel more sheep than human at the moment. Did sheep get to sleep much? He hoped so.

"Counting sheep!" he blurted after almost a minute of complete silence.

"I'm sorry?"

"You know. What people say you should try to do when you can't go to sleep." As though that was sufficient explanation.

"Right…" Jack was clearly lost. But this wasn't a rare occurrence where his colleague was concerned.

"Well, you're the one who started talking about sheep!" he accused.

"Have you eaten anything today?" Smooth transition. And hypoglycaemia might have explained his scattered brain.

"Why is everyone pestering me about this?" the Doctor complained.

"Who's pestering you?"

"Clara, the other day. And when I took Mycroft to her place," he replied, before realising that he hadn't wanted to mention her. Not with Jack. Not now when he was shattered and prone to say stupid things – as the whole sheep debacle had just proven.

"How is she?"

"She's good, her dog's having his second hydro session this afternoon."

"You're aware that I'm asking how _she_ is and you just told me about how her dog was doing."

"I'm aware of that."

"Please tell me you're not going to talk about 'errors in the continuum of things' again."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten about that conversation, actually," the Doctor admitted.

Tardis jumped from his lap to request a cuddle from Uncle Jack. The distraction was a welcomed one. Hopefully, his right-hand man would drop the subject.

"Are you staying for the whole session with her?"

"I can't this time, my surgeries got delayed yesterday, and if I stay until 3 AM again I might die."

"I can be there, if you want. Stay with her. I saw my last patient and my first surgery isn't until four this afternoon."

 _Lucky you_. But that was nice of him. Although, knowing his colleague, he had an ulterior motive, and the Doctor was just too beat to work it out at the moment. So he gratefully agreed.

The Doctor introduced Clara to Jack when she arrived and told her he'd be there with her during the session instead of him. From her look, he surmised that she was remembering his presence at her side on the night of the attack. It would be good for her to see his friend in another light, and hopefully her memory wouldn't prevent her from doing that. Introductions over, they walked to the pool and the Doctor excused himself.

"Good luck with your surgeries," she told him with a thoughtful smile. He'd take any smile from her, but he hoped she'd soon get back to the full-blown grins he'd gotten used to on the beach. They seemed so far away, now.

On Wednesday, he was doing an emergency limb salvage on a Labrador who'd been in a traffic accident when Clara was due to arrive for Mycroft's session. So he sent his surgical registrar Martha, thinking that she might like someone new. He was afraid the young vet would see that as a demotion, but she actually seemed glad for the break from the operating theatre.

His back was doing an awful number on him after the two-hour surgery, and he painfully made his way to his office to lie down on the hard floor for some relief. He should drag himself to the gym for a real stretch, but for now the cold linoleum was just about the most divine thing ever, thank you very much. The Doctor closed his eyes and pretended he was somewhere else. He thought he heard footsteps after a while, but chose to ignore them.

"Did you have some food yet?"

Jack. Of course.

"No, not that question again!" he bemoaned, keeping his eyes resolutely closed.

"No, I meant the food Clara brought."

Eyes opened.

"Clara brought food?"

"Yeah, the cakes are amazing."

Raised head.

"Cakes as in more than one?"

"Mmh mmh." Mouth full, the wee wretch.

Standing up, now.

"She brought homemade cakes and quiches for the whole staff. Martha needed help carrying everything. She must have been cooking non-stop since Monday."

"Why would she do that?"

"To say thanks, Martha said."

The Doctor hadn't had the opportunity to speak to Jack about the physio session he had attended with Clara.

"Did you say anything to her on Monday that would make her think she needed to do that?"

"Not at all, she's just being nice. She did ask about you, though."

 _Oh boy._

"What did she ask?"

"Jesus, you should see your face. She didn't ask if you were single, if that's what you're hoping…"

"I wasn't…!"

"She asked if you always skipped lunch. I told her if it was the only meal you skipped each day, that wouldn't be a problem."

"I'm not…!"

"So I guess that _might_ be where she got the idea for the food."

"You think?" Heavy on the sarcasm. Jack looking innocent.

"Are you going to get some food downstairs or not, then? She did say to keep some for you, but it might have all disappeared by now."

A beat. Just to show that he wasn't pleased.

"Watch me."

Her cakes were a murder, after all. And his agonizing back was a distant memory.

Oddly enough, food became an intricate part of their relationship – if it could be called that – in the following weeks. Clara would come three times a week for her dog's appointments, and each time she'd bring homemade cooking. Sometimes cakes, tarts or quiches for the whole practice, sometimes just a Tupperware for him. And she never took no for an answer.

As Mycroft was slowly but surely healing, so did Clara. Her wounds might not be clearly visible, contrary to her pet, but the Doctor was able to see progress. It was now completely unnecessary for him to keep on meeting her in the parking lot, but he kept at it, just on the off chance that something bad happened. There had only been one instance when he was reminded that she might be troubled by the fact that the prowler was still out there. One of the nurses' car backfired as they were walking towards the pool, and she jumped about a foot high and moved considerably closer to him. She assured him she was okay when he asked, but she stayed where she was until they reached the building. The Doctor had mixed feelings about that discovery – worried that she'd still be jumpy after all this time, yet glad that she felt safer with him at her side.

When the day came for her to pick up her dog for good, following five weeks of treatment and rehab, the Doctor was worried the changed dynamic would mean seeing a lot less of her. Sure, he was thrilled that Mycroft was healed enough to go home, and Clara looked beautiful in her happiness, but he couldn't help feeling a little selfish.

As it turned out, he shouldn't have worried, since Clara would still unexpectedly show up once or twice a week with food, so much so that the Doctor started to wonder if she had a soft spot for one of his interns, a worry he shared with Jack. "It's you, you _eejit_ ," he replied, doing a passable imitation of him in the process.

Mycroft hadn't been given the all-clear yet to be taken off lead – probably soon, although he would need some x-rays to be sure – so there was no beach rendezvous either. The Doctor hoped they could remedy that soon. Then all would be put to rights once more, as far as he was concerned. And they would be able to forget that her attack had ever happened.

Thinking that telling her to bring her dog tomorrow for a last check-up was a good enough excuse to see her in person, the Doctor rang her doorbell that night. It was just past eleven, early for him. Which was good, since the past few days hadn't seen him leave the practice. He'd noticed her lights on at all hours for so long, that he wasn't sure he had checked, this time. Which might explain her rumpled state, half-closed eyes and short – very short – pyjamas.

"Shit, you were asleep."

 _Smooth one, Columbo._

"Are you okay?" she asked blearily.

"Were your lights on?" he inquired, thinking that was as good an explanation as any.

"I always leave the front room light on so that Mycroft doesn't trip on the stairs and hurt himself," she replied.

 _Not a good explanation, then._

"I'm sorry."

"That's okay, come in," she said, not waiting for his answer and walking towards the kitchen.

"Have you eaten?"

 _Oh, for God's sake._


	6. Chapter 6

They were back on the beach for the first time. Mycroft had had his last check-up the previous day, and the x-rays had shown that his bones had now healed enough. Clara would be able to let him run. It was a Sunday morning, and for once the weather was nice. Spring was finally there. The Doctor had brought along Tardis for the happy celebration.

When the Briard was finally released from his lead, the Doctor heard an actual squeal. There were tears in her eyes as she watched the two dogs run like mad towards the water. Then arms were thrown around him and he felt like squealing himself in surprise. _A hug. They were hugging now, then. Okay. Sure. Be cool. Please, be cool._

The Doctor did like any sane person would do and hugged her back.

"Jesus, they're really something, your hugs," he heard against his chest.

"What?" he replied, starting to release her. But she hadn't let go.

"You're skinny, but you've got arms of steel."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good, definitely good. Love a hug, me."

And only then did she release him. And beamed at him. That was more like it. But before he could start to formulate a witty answer – _dream on_ – she promptly ran off after her dog and he was left wondering what he was supposed to do. Follow her? Remain standing there looking like a dunce? Follow her it was, then.

Meeting her and Mycroft on the beach became once more a regular occurrence, when the Doctor managed to drag himself out of bed or out of the practice. To any outside observer it would have looked as though they'd circled back to February, when they first met. Except that it wasn't the case. Whatever their relationship was, it had clearly changed. Shifted on its axis. Deep down, he knew that the ball was in his court, and that he was supposed to act if he wanted things to change even more. But did he want that? And more importantly, did she?

The Doctor didn't think he was reading her signs wrong, despite how rusty he felt in that respect. Yet what they had was too important to mess up. And honestly? It was never the right time to say anything. He was either too tired or too late or too anxious. He'd come quite close a few times on sunny mornings when her smiles would look just _that_ much brighter. But each time he'd swallowed back his words. Same thing when he would drop by her place once in a blue moon on the nights he finished his surgeries at a reasonable hour. Clara never asked why he came by – he had an excuse at the ready if needed, checking up on his patient – and she always insisted he ate something. He was surprised he hadn't put on any weight. But then, the food was healthy. And good, always so good.

"You're like an old married couple already", commented Jack one day after witnessing their banter at the practice. Clara had dropped off an apple pie when she'd heard it was Amy's birthday.

The Doctor thought they were always just shy of flirting. But apparently, he wasn't fooling anyone, least of all his closest friend.

"What do you mean?" he still pressed.

"I mean, if you haven't asked her out already, what are you waiting for?"

"What are we supposed to do, go out on a date?" the idea was strangely ludicrous to him.

"Don't tell me it's been that long. Yes, that's what normal people usually do."

"I like what we have, now. It's nice." He wasn't lying there.

"It's not going anywhere, though, is it? And if you don't ask her, someone else probably will. Although, for reasons that are beyond me, she clearly only has eyes for you," added Jack, who had started to walk away from him.

"She's been through a lot lately. It's too soon," the Doctor couldn't help but explain himself. Or was he defending himself? He wasn't sure.

A nod from Jack, who didn't have anything else to add and had patients to see. What did his nod mean? That he agreed with him? Or that his boss's stupidity was self-evident?

It took a while for him to realise that the younger vet was right. He couldn't afford sleepless nights to ruminate over the subject, and he was too old to play games. Clara also deserved better from him. He had _wanted_ to believe that he was waiting for her to be better. But it was actually him. Him getting the courage to ask her. Because yes, if he could have more, then he wanted it. And he'd be the luckiest sod alive if she said yes.

As though he had been looking for a sign, Clara knocked on the door of his office one day.

"What are you doing here?" Someone from his staff must have told her where his office was. It certainly wasn't advertised.

"I was having lunch with Amy."

Of course she was. They'd become fast friends. Clara became fast friends with everyone at the practice. It was unnerving.

The Doctor properly raised his eyes from the scans he was reviewing on his computer. Clara was wearing a blue dress with white polka dots. It was a beautiful day outside and she looked radiant.

"You look nice."

"Thank you."

"That dress is really…" _Don't repeat 'nice', don't repeat 'nice'…_

"It is, isn't it? I like it."

 _Thank God for small favours._

"Blue _is_ your colour, then."

She was taken aback. Clearly not expecting that he would remember her comment when she'd been self-conscious over her bruised ribs. Clara did smile a lot more, lately. But he didn't think he'd ever been on the receiving end of the one she was directing at him at the moment. _Say something. Say something now. This is the right time._

"Walk me back to my car?" she suddenly asked.

"Sure."

He'd have agreed to anything.

The Doctor was still wondering what he should say to her as they were exiting the practice. He could see Mycroft enjoying the attention of several auxiliaries and nurses in the field adjacent to the main building. Clara was about to call him when her face suddenly changed.

Staring at something behind him. Discomfiture, decomposition. So white and so scared. And the Doctor understood. Understood exactly. He turned around, and here he was. It was him. Back after all this time. And there was no hesitation.

The first punch broke something, and the second and third took him to the ground. Before he could think about what the fourth would do, strong arms had encircled him. Voices could be heard. A distant pain in his hand. Someone on the ground bleeding and someone telling him to stop. Stop what? Clara's face. Worried. That finally did the trick. The Doctor ceased struggling to break free of the two male auxiliaries who were holding him back.

It had been so fast, he'd just reacted. Jack appeared. More staff.

Why had he come back? Why in broad daylight? Why today?

He was standing up, his hands over his face, and the Doctor felt like lunging at him once more. Was about to. But people separated them, Jack the first in line.

"You broke something," he mumbled, indignant. _Indignant?_

"I know I did, you fucker, I'm an orthopaedic surgeon!"

He was being dragged inside, now. Led away from owners and patients in the waiting room. Jesus, there was quite a crowd. The Doctor didn't care about anything, at the moment. Later on, he'd explain his reaction as partially motivated by exhaustion. But this was only part of it. The rest would be kept silent. For now, at least.

"Your hand."

"What?"

An empty consultation room. Bright lights on white walls, Jack looking at him. _Where's Clara?_

"I'm here."

Her voice behind Jack. Had he asked his question out loud? Was she hiding?

"Your hand is bleeding."

"It's not." Stubborn. But he did look at it. And started feeling it once more. It hurt quite a bit and the pain brought him back to reality.

"What happened?"

Jack was speaking for all three of them with that question. What happened, indeed.

The Doctor washed his right hand in the sink. He still wasn't sure if some of the blood was his. But it did sting like a motherfucker.

"It was him, right?" he asked Clara.

A nod from her, and that was answer enough. And justification enough, as far as he was concerned.

Someone knocked. The head of security. He should just sack the whole lot of them, they were never there when it mattered.

"The police are here, they want to speak to you, sir."

The man had the decency to look a bit sheepish. With a clear head, the Doctor would acknowledge that it wasn't their fault. But he was still seeing red at the moment.

"I'll be there in a minute."

Clara and Jack hadn't moved. He didn't like the look his colleague was giving him, but he liked Clara's scared eyes even less. Not knowing what to say, he grabbed tissues for his hand, tried not to show his discomfort, and left the room.

The quick interview he gave the two officers – the same who had turned up the first time, as it happened, Hickling was tiny after all – was a blur. He was to give a formal statement at the station later that day. The man was in custody, but they advised him to have his lawyer present. The Doctor thought they looked sympathetic, though he couldn't be sure. He wished he was able to feel anything but apathy over what happened, but he didn't. Would he ever?

When he walked back to the ward, an assistant told him his surgeries had been rescheduled or given to other vets. The Doctor felt like yelling at her – he had never agreed to anything of the sort. But before he opened his mouth, Jack threw an ice pack at him, hard.

"For your hand," he said.

Before he could start yelling at him as well, he automatically did as suggested, and winced loudly. _Fuck!_

"There's no way you'll be able to operate tonight. Anything broken, you think?"

The Doctor grumbled and moved his hand. After a wide array of colourful profanities, he finally shook his head.

"Don't think so. Did Clara leave?"

Jack answered with a shrug. "You're not going to talk about it?" he added.

"I just talked about it with the police. And I'll have to talk about it with them again later today. And with a lawyer. So no, I don't want to talk about it with you as well."

"A lawyer? Do you have one?"

"The practice has one."

"For litigation with owners, not assault."

"This wasn't assault."

Jack sighed. "I'll find you a lawyer, I know a few. Why don't you go lie down for a bit?"

"I'm not tired."

"Check that your hand is fine, then. Get an x-ray even, whatever."

They were both dying to let their exasperation known, but smart enough to acknowledge that it wouldn't lead anywhere and probably result in angry words they'd regret later. So the Doctor nodded, even though he was planning on finding some work to do, and Jack pretended he didn't know his cantankerous boss would do exactly that.

The Doctor entered his office, flinching when opening the door with his right hand proved too painful, and cursed audibly.

"What a _fucking_ eejit!"

"Does it hurt a lot?"

"Shit!"

The Doctor leapt in shock. He hadn't noticed Clara sitting on the floor, her back against the window.

"What the hell are you still doing here?"

He was tired. He was in pain. And she was the last person he wanted to see at the moment. But it didn't mean he wanted to yell at her.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you."

"I know."

Just that sentence, 'I know', and it made him feel better. Jack hadn't said that. He _didn't_ know. But somehow, Clara did. And it made all the difference.

The Doctor slid to the floor to sit next to her. She didn't look at him and they didn't talk for a while.

"Show me?" she eventually asked, but didn't wait for his answer before grasping his hand gently. It was inflamed and tender. The skin over his knuckles torn.

"It's bleeding," Clara said in a disapproving tone.

"Only a little bit," he parried.

"It could be broken."

"It's not. It just looks worse than it is," the Doctor replied, only then realising that he was mirroring her own words from after her attack. She suddenly let go of his hand.

"This was really stupid, you shouldn't have done that. You're a surgeon, for God's sake!"

Clara was angry. He hadn't anticipated this reaction at all. His raised eyebrows must have enraged her some more because she was on a roll.

"I'm serious. What the hell? What if you can't work?"

"It will be fine tomorrow, don't fuss," he tried to placate her. But that had been a mistake.

"Don't fuss? Oh, I'll fuss if I want to, Mister Irresponsible. This was rash and pointless and you could be arrested."

"I won't be arrested…" he countered, although he had no idea. He hoped Jack's promised lawyer was good.

"You don't know that. And you don't know that he wouldn't have attacked you. He's dangerous."

"He didn't have time to attack me," he retorted, stung by her words.

"You scared me to death, you idiot!"

" _I_ scared you to death?" The Doctor challenged, remembering her face when she saw her attacker outside very clearly. This wasn't a face he would easily forget.

He was getting worked up all over again. Enraged at that fucking pathetic excuse for a human being. How dare he come back? How dare he come back when Clara was doing so well? When they'd finally been able to put it all behind them? When she was back to laughing and running on the beach without a care in the world? And on that day! Why did he have to choose today of all day, when he'd finally worked up the courage to ask her? Yes, that was it! That was the most maddening thing of all, as absurd as it sounded. The Doctor threw the now warm ice pack against the opposite wall in anger and Clara flinched.

 _Shit_.

"Sorry."

He breathed in deeply to calm down. Pretended he was in surgery faced with a complication he hadn't foreseen. No point panicking, no point complaining. You just had to compose yourself and find a solution.

"I'm not mad at you," he eventually said, more collected. "I'm probably just mad at myself. And at _him_. Well, mostly at him, to be honest."

Clara didn't say anything, but she didn't up and leave either, so he took it as a good sign.

"I mean, look at you," he added, turning to her. She stared back at him unflinchingly. "With your eyes and your smiles and your beautiful dress that I've now wrecked," he realised, seeing that some blood from his hand now stained it.

"I don't care."

"You _should_ care!"

A small smile.

"You're right, this was stupid," he started again.

A pause. Gathering his thoughts.

"But I don't regret it. I probably never will because it means it's finally really over. He's no longer out there. So whatever price I'll have to pay's got to be worth it."

Clara lowered her eyes. Even with her hair masking part of her face, he saw her chin start to tremble. Then her hands flying to her mouth. At the first swallowed sob he was reaching out to her and she went willingly to his arms, holding him fast as tears rolled down her cheeks. This wasn't like holding a distressed pet owner. Or an injured animal. He couldn't find the right words to say what it felt like, but he knew he shouldn't let go.

"It's over," she managed to say against his chest. He understood now what had caused her tears. _Relief._

"Yeah, it's over," he confirmed.

She slowly composed herself. But the Doctor still felt she needed some cheering up.

"To think I'd chosen today to ask you out!" he blurted, no longer wishing to have that unuttered confession weigh him down.

A few more tears, but there was a smile there as well – he thought so, at least.

"And I would have said yes," she admitted.

The Doctor wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. He wasn't sure about anything anymore. Before he could make up his mind, his phone rang on his desk. He stood up stiffly. Jack, saying he'd found a lawyer. He would be waiting for him at the police station. And yes, the police had called again – he was expected. Sighing but knowing it was best not to delay the inevitable, the Doctor thanked his friend and relayed all this to Clara.

She stood up, all traces of her small meltdown hidden behind a look that he hoped was genuine, and approached him.

"Don't wait too long to ask me again," she said, her right hand framing his face.

The kiss she then planted on his lips was swift but meaningful. She was gone before he had time to realise that he had closed his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

The Doctor arrived at North Walsham police station at seven that evening. He had debated whether to change from his scrubs then decided he didn't care. When he saw the impeccable suit and haircut of the barrister waiting for him, he came to regret his decision. Given how absurd his day had been, he didn't even bat an eyelid when the soft-spoken manicured man introduced himself as Lord Michael S. Bartholomew, defence QC. Trust Jack not to kid around. When the man said he'd find you a lawyer, he would. If the Doctor had been more inclined to focus on pretty much anything that didn't revolve around Clara and what had transpired in his office, he'd have happily conjectured on where his colleague's path had crossed with that of the man who was now suggesting he should lie to the police.

"I'm not saying that, he never even spoke to me. To us."

They were sitting in an empty interview room. Two detectives would join them after his allotted twenty minutes of legal advice.

"I'm not saying you should outright lie. I'm simply suggesting you should look at the situation from the opposite angle. The man you presumably attacked is accusing you of assault and battery and stipulates he had come to your practice to formally apologise to Miss Oswald."

"The fucking nerve!" the Doctor erupted.

"Quite. He's basically saying he came with the best intentions, and he has now suffered multiple fractures because of you."

"Not multiple fractures, I just broke his nose."

A pointed look from the QC, who was now reading from a note.

"Patient suffers from a nasal bone fracture, as well as suspected zygomatic and mandibular fractures, quote unquote."

"He should have a CT scan before he accuses me of multiple fractures. Clearly the X-rays were inconclusive for them to say that. 'Suspected', yeah, right…" complained the Doctor.

The barrister made an approving sound and wrote down a note for himself, apparently pleased with his client. And he didn't look like a man who would often be pleased, be it with his clients or anything else.

The formal interview was a fraught affair. Each time the Doctor wanted to answer a question, Lord Bartholomew would answer for him, saying that his client didn't have to be heard on that particular point. It was as though he had a sixth sense when it came to his impulses. He knew that the Doctor would pull no punches and fall into whatever trap might be laid for him by the detectives. Said detectives didn't seem to be on anyone's side in the matter, which was fair enough – they were doing their job – but he had hoped for some semblance of sympathy. They knew what the man had done to Clara, after all. It all changed when he was finally quicker that his barrister to answer the mother of all questions.

"What did you feel, when you saw him?"

"I feared for Clara's life."

His reply had come without notice. Without thought. He hadn't been able to answer that particular query after the fact, but now that he had heard the words coming out of his mouth, he realised how true they were. The QC looked pleased, although that hadn't been a lie.

"I thought he'd come back for her. To hurt her."

"So you were defending her?"

"Yes, exactly."

The detectives were a lot more cooperative after that. Telling him about how they'd been looking for Clara's attacker for months, how he had tried successfully and unsuccessfully to steal other dogs from owners in the past. The assaults. Although never as serious as with Clara. He had mental and behavioural issues, and hopefully would now get treatment. The Doctor then let his lawyer discuss the finer details of responsibility, damages, reparation, and whatnot. He was done with all of this and only wanted to get back to his life. Hopefully with Clara in it - in a capacity to be determined when he could see straight. His hand was throbbing like crazy and he hoped he'd be able to get some rest with the help of a heavy dosage of Paracetamol.

He expected Lord Bartholomew to discuss his fee when they left the station – one he would have to swallow – but the QC merely asked after Jack's cat, Ianto.

"He is a good man, your friend. He saved my Burmese four years ago. I'll be forever grateful."

 _Mystery solved._

"And you seem to be a good man too. I was glad to help and will continue to help on anything. This young lady is lucky to have you in her life."

"What do you mean?"

As far as he was concerned, he'd brought Clara nothing but trouble ever since he met her.

"The man who attacked her would have probably found his way back to her. His lawyer might say that he had come to your practice to apologise, but given your… intervention, I guess we'll never know the truth. She must be very grateful."

The Doctor remained pensive long after the Lord had left in his Jaguar. Was she grateful? Is that what this was all about? Did she feel indebted to him in some fucked up way? Did that explain the food she brought to the practice regularly? The way she was looking at him? The kiss, even? There was no way he would be able to rest until he knew for sure.

Rain had started to fall heavily as he was making his way back to Horsey Corner. The wipers going side to side, side to side. The blurry headlights of the cars driving past him. The clock making no sense. How could it be midnight already? His right hand had turned into a cluster of pain. But this would have to wait. _Can't sleep, can't work, can't anything._ He had to see Clara.

Parking in front of his house. Exiting the car. Crossing the road. Getting plastered by cold rain but not caring. Ringing the doorbell. Waiting. Door opening.

"Well, that didn't take long."

The police interview? No, her request before she left his office, he realised. _Don't wait too long to ask me again._ She was smiling, he wasn't.

"Why did you kiss me?"

Clara wasn't smiling anymore.

"You look drenched, why don't you come in? We can talk."

But he wasn't moving. Rain pouring down his face. He had to know. Now.

"Is that because I hit him? Because I fixed your dog? Was that to thank me or something?"

She gripped the door tightly, and for a moment the Doctor thought that she was going to slam it in his face. A few steps in his direction. Barefoot. Hands reaching up and covering his cheeks. _Don't move. Don't breathe._ Warm lips on his cold ones. Her tongue finding his. _Keep your eyes open, this time_. An eternity encompassed in a handful of seconds. Letting go. Her feet touching the ground once more.

"Does it feel like 'thank you' to you?"

No, he didn't think so.

So he let her do it. Again. And again. Each kiss lasting longer, until he was absolutely sure of her intentions. Dragged inside. Wet clothes easily discarded. Cold skin easily warmed up with hands and lips. The stairs proved tricky, but the Doctor was nothing if not focused. Focused on turning her sighs gradually into moans. Focused on learning every curve and dip of her body. Focused on keeping his eyes opened.

A bed. A small discomfort when he realised that his right hand wouldn't hold his weight. But soon he was so close to her that it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but her. Them. And when he finally closed his eyes he was sure of two things: the pain in his hand was worth it. So _fucking_ worth it. And he'd never doubt her smile again.

Light coming from an unfamiliar window, in an unfamiliar room. Rolling over to his other side and sighing deeply, he finally found something he knew. _Clara_. As though he needed to make sure she was really there, with her tightly closed eyes and messed up hair, he touched her cheek with the tip of his fingers. His hand still felt like a pounding dead weight, but he could move it more easily. Or maybe it was thanks to the happy drugs still coursing through him. He could put clinical terms on them, sure. But where was the fun in that?

Clara opened her eyes slowly. Contrary to him, there was no surprise. She had expected him to be there. Simple as that.

"How's your hand?" she whispered, gently grasping the fingers that hadn't stopped stroking her face.

"What hand?" he joked.

"It's fine," he added, when he saw that she wanted an actual answer. "Better than yesterday, I should be able to operate."

"Do you have to leave soon?"

It was still early, he knew. And there was no way he would leave this bed just yet. So instead of replying with words he kissed her languidly. She hummed in pleasure and he felt like the luckiest eejit alive. Kissed both her eyes, her nose, her chin. Spent considerable time on her chest before she climbed on top of him and it was his turn to let her do as she pleased.

Later. Downstairs having breakfast. Lunch? Something in between given the time. Brunch, then. How very posh. Mycroft not looking too put out for having relegated his place in Clara's bed. He hoped so, at least. She had asked for a brief summary of the previous day's events at the police station, and the Doctor happily obliged. He was pretty sure every verb would have 'happily' attached to it for a while. He'd happily kiss her and make love to her again. Happily go to work with the firm intention of getting back to her sooner rather than later. Happily handle the pain in his hand. Happily suffer Jack's recriminations and the strange looks from his staff.

Except life wasn't like that, of course. Life was unhappy pets and unhappy owners. Unhappy, overworked nurses and unhappy, shouty receptionists. So instead of seeing Clara eight or so hours after he left her, it was fourteen, and she was fast asleep. He napped for two hours in his bed at home and walked to the beach at seven.

"What are you doing here?" she asked when she arrived.

The Doctor grumbled. He had hoped for a nicer welcome.

"Did you get any sleep? You look dreadful, you should be in bed."

"I wanted to see you," he replied stubbornly. Pretending that his eyes weren't closing on their own volition and that he hadn't allowed Tardis to gnaw at his ankles to keep him awake.

"I'll walk Tardis, it looks like she needs it. Go back to bed, I'll drop her at the practice this afternoon."

"But I don't know when I'll see you again," the Doctor complained, not caring that he sounded like a petulant child.

Clara rose on her tiptoes and kissed him at the corner of his lips. He lowered his forehead to her shoulder and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, the smell of her hair filling his nostrils.

"Don't be daft," she replied, stroking the curly hair at the nape of his neck, "you have nothing to be sorry for. I didn't expect you to suddenly get a nine to five job."

His eyes tightly closed, the Doctor felt as though he could fall asleep right there. He might brain himself on the pebbles and sand, yes. But it would be in lovely company.

"I'll bring Tardis to the practice this afternoon. I'll look after her until then. I'll get you a key for my place as well, so I don't have to open the door again at three in the morning. If you just want to see me and sleep, then don't hesitate to use it, I won't kick you out of my bed. For anything else…"

He raised his head from its hiding place in the crook of her neck. Bleary face, sleepy eyes, crooked smile.

"For anything else you'll have to be more rested, Mister."

A nod and a real kiss this time.

"Go to bed," she admonished, pushing him gently in the right direction.

Yes, go to bed. And try to figure out how the _hell_ you're going to work this out. Because there was no way it would be a one-time thing.

The Doctor made use of Clara's key a lot more than he wanted to admit. The first few times, given that he didn't know his way around her house yet, he woke her and he felt terrible about it. But she'd simply roll over in bed and invite him to join her. "For sleep," she'd stress drowsily, though the Doctor was too exhausted to do anything but get under the covers and hold her close. It was a different story come morning or on the nights he managed to arrive at a decent hour, and he would feel like nothing in the world could ever harm him again when he made love to her.

Unsurprisingly, he rarely felt like eating when he arrived in the middle of the night, but there would always be something for him in the fridge. _Obviously_. Clara's vocation was to feed him, after all. And she would berate him the next days when he said he'd gone straight to bed and hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

Sundays were often entirely theirs. Mostly spent in bed or on the beach that had gotten a little more crowded with the arrival of Summer. Crowded meaning that they no longer had the whole beach for themselves when they bravely rolled out of bed by noon.

After particularly rough days at the practice, the Doctor would hesitate turning up. As though he didn't want to infect her with the death and the sadness clinging to him. He found himself standing over her bed one night, feeling dirty and loathsome. Clara woke up, and asked him what he was doing.

"I'll sleep over the covers."

"Why?" Broken whisper. Four in the morning.

"I should shower, then."

"Are you covered in blood or gore or poo?"

A small smile despite everything.

"No, nothing pet related. Just me."

"Then hurry up and get in."

Perhaps he should have taken more time then to appreciate how lucky he was. Just a few extra seconds to stop and think. _Yeah, enjoy this while this lasts, mate._ But free time wasn't something that he had at his disposal.

So what went wrong, the Doctor wondered. What went wrong indeed…

* * *

A/N: Fair warning, don't get too confortable. I'm not done with drama and angst. But rest assured that I can't write anything but a happy end.

And as always, thank you so much for all your comments! :)


	8. Chapter 8

The fact that anything was wrong took a while to make itself known. It came in increments. Slowly but surely. Small things, at first. More late nights at the practice, more difficult cases. A few missed commitments, a few questionable decisions regarding their weekend plans – when they made some. She never once complained or challenged his enduring dedication to his job. Being a vet would always have to come first. He'd told her outright early on in their relationship that nothing would change that. It was a pretty big obstacle, one that had prevented him from forging any lasting relationships in the past. No one liked to come second, after all.

But Clara valued her independence and her freedom and had said so. She liked to keep her own hours and do her own things. They'd never talked about moving in together. Although they mostly spent whatever time they had together at her place, his house was definitely bigger, and could have easily accommodated the both of them with space to spare. They'd never mentioned taking a holiday together either, even though that would have proven difficult with their impractical schedules.

Five months in – and when all was said and done, they were very happy months, no doubt about it – he thought it would still be a good idea to take stock of the situation. Jack was obviously quick to point out that choosing that day of all days to do it wasn't incidental.

"You've been acting weird ever since we heard Amy gave birth."

"I have not, and we've known she was going to have the baby for a while, now."

His office, lunch hour. The Doctor eating leftovers from Clara at his desk. His friend once more pretending that the sofa was made for sitting.

"Maybe, but it doesn't change the fact that it makes you wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"Wonder what it must be like to have a normal life. In the nine months you've known Clara, Amy managed to get married and have a baby."

"We don't need to get married or have babies for us to be happy," the Doctor countered.

"I'm not saying that, I'm saying you can't help but feel a bit threatened by it. All your life you've put your vocation first - helping animals. And Amy's one of the most dedicated interns working here. You trust her implicitly with your patients and she'd do everything in her power to save them. And yet she manages to have a life outside this practice."

"I do have a life." A beat. "Lately, at least."

"You still leave after midnight most days," Jack pointed out correctly.

"It's working fine for us."

"But for how long? How long do you think that limbo is going to last?"

The Doctor shrugged, but had to think before coming up with a suitable answer.

"Until one of us says things need to change, I imagine."

"And that's never going to happen, you're both too stubborn."

Unfortunately, the American vet was quite right on that respect. He'd spent enough time in Clara's presence to know that.

"So what are you saying? That I should propose?" the Doctor snorted, his pasta dish mostly gone by then. And yet he was still making a lot of unnecessary noise with his fork, scratching it against the plate.

"You, married? Now that's something I'd love to see." The Doctor pretended to feel insulted. And surprisingly, he _did_ feel a bit miffed.

"No," Jack added, "but it might be time for you to take a good gander at your priorities."

"I know where my priorities are. They're here, with the practice. Clara knows that. Which is why she's fine with what we have."

"Do you even realise how lucky you are?" His tone was almost aggressive, now. The Doctor recoiled in surprise.

"She feeds you, lets you sleep in her bed, and more I assume." A dark look from his boss. "Not asking for anything in return."

"She doesn't _want_ anything."

"Have you even asked her?"

Silence.

"You don't feel anything for her?"

"Fuck off, of course I do!"

"When you have to stay late and can't see her for several days, do you miss her?"

"Jesus, what's wrong with you? Of course!" The conversation was making him more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

"Do you feel guilty when that happens? When it's staying here or going to her, and you choose staying here?"

"No!"

But he'd replied too quickly. Automatically. It was an interesting question, after all. One he couldn't answer easily. Because he wasn't sure he would be pleased with the result. What he _had_ to do and what he _wanted_ to do were two different things. Always had been. All his life.

Jack got up. He looked resigned.

"There's only one question you should really be asking yourself."

Looking up at him, listening. This was important.

"If you drop dead tonight at 2AM while fixing a dog, will you regret anything?"

There was no quick 'no' to say to that, so the Doctor stayed silent this time.

To prove his colleague wrong – and because their conversation had unsettled him more than he would like to admit – the Doctor made sure to arrive at Clara's before she had gone to bed that night. She'd been working on a tedious project lately, and he found her still at it when he got there.

"I'll be half an hour, then we can eat. I'm starving, I haven't stopped all day!"

"I'll cook something."

Clara looked up from her screens. Raised eyebrows.

"I _do_ know how to cook," the Doctor defended himself.

"I never said you didn't. Feel free to cook at your leisure, you know where everything is."

Was that sarcasm?

"The fire extinguisher is at the bottom of the stairs, by the way."

That _had_ been sarcasm then, yeah, which was fair enough. The Doctor hadn't planned on offering to cook that night. But he felt jittery and wanted to keep busy until he'd be able to talk to her. And yes, maybe Jack's pointed accusations had rattled him.

Over sandwiches and salad later – his skills where what they were – he couldn't seem to find where to start the conversation he wanted to have with her. Thankfully, Clara was there to rescue him.

"What's wrong? You're barely eating and you look worried. Did something bad happen at the practice?"

It should have unnerved him that she'd automatically jump to that conclusion. But then, his whole life revolved around his patients. When something was wrong, it was never him. Not really.

"No, today was okay."

"Did Amy send you River's picture? She looks adorable! With her round cheeks and tiny closed fists."

The Doctor nodded and tried to eat a little. Clara talked some more about Amy's baby then about her ongoing translation project.

"I'll finish it tomorrow, we can have an early night, if you want."

It was close to midnight already, but for two night owls it was early indeed. Clara still seemed to be under the impression that something was amiss.

"Are you happy?" he asked out of the blue as they were loading the dishwasher. He could have waited for a more opportune time, but he'd just managed to formulate what was really on his mind.

Clara turned towards him, half-frowning, half-smiling, as though she couldn't decide what she felt.

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Well, it's an important question, don't you think?"

"Sure."

"I feel I should confirm that you are."

"You feel responsible for my happiness?" she rephrased, a grin ultimately betraying her frame of mind over the matter.

The Doctor grumbled and she slid her hands up his chest in a soothing manner.

"To answer your question, since it seems so important for you to ask it all of a sudden, yes, I'm happy. Now will you tell me what's really on your mind?"

He peered down at her. Her warm brown eyes and pink lips he was dying to kiss already. The feel of her fingers over his heart. Tangible. Meaningful. Why would Jack even have to ask him if he felt anything for her? How could he not?

Looking back, it would have been the right time to speak up. To ask her to elaborate on her assertion that she was happy. _You're happy now, but will you be happy in six months? A year?_ That's what his colleague's parting words had been all about.

"Nothing," he replied instead, smiling the serene smile of the oblivious. His kisses were soon distracting Clara from her earlier misgivings.

As though he was set on proving his friend wrong on every account, the Doctor suggested they should go away for the weekend the next morning. He'd clear his surgeries, and they'd be able to have the two days for themselves. Clara had been surprised, but clearly up for it, and Jack had looked mystified to say the least when he announced it. But he wouldn't be deterred, and he worked diligently the next three days to make it happen.

They settled on a road trip over the East Anglia coast, both agreeing that they didn't need to go far, and packed the car with dogs and plans to enjoy the last days of Summer. And they did – running in the sand with Tardis and Mycroft, eating fish and chips whilst he complained they would always taste better in Scotland anyway, having one too many pints of cider at the pub they were staying at on Saturday night and waking up with sore heads, making love when the hangover passed, getting lost on the way back, shouting at the GPS, and finally swimming one last time in the already far too cold sea before having a well deserved bath at Clara's place.

Unfortunately, those happy memories had to be tarnished the very next morning by a merry retired school teacher who had brought in her nine-year-old Yorkie at the practice for a knee replacement.

"She's very beautiful, your girlfriend."

"My girlfriend?" Examining the dog, miles away from anything not cartilage, muscles, and joints related.

"Maybe a bit young for you, but so pretty! You looked very much in love on the pictures."

Back to reality now.

"What pictures?"

"I read the article in the _Daily Times_. They didn't give her name, but they said she might have been a client of yours. Was she? I'm not judging, of course. And you do deserve to have fun after all. You work so much!"

When the Doctor asked for said article, his teeth set, she said she no longer had it. But it didn't take him long during lunch hour to find it online.

'LOCAL FAMOUS VET ON HOLIDAY WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND'

The article clearly wouldn't win any Pulitzer price – it was the _East Anglian Daily Times_ , after all, let's get real – but for all it lacked in details regarding 'the mysterious brunette', it certainly offered quite eloquent pictures. Four of them in total, all taken on one of the beaches they had visited during the weekend. They were kissing in one, and he was holding her hand or hugging her in the others. So pretending she was just a friend would clearly not work.

"At least they haven't snapped us in our bathing suits coming out of the cold water, you should be grateful," Clara said with a small smile that night, clearly unfazed, when he showed her the article.

"That doesn't bother you?" he pressed.

"Why should it bother me? I don't care. You might be fairly famous, but you're allowed to have a girlfriend, right? We're not doing anything improper. Clients are not going to call and complain."

And true, they hadn't. But that wasn't the point.

"The real question is, why does it bother _you_?"

She was right, of course. It _was_ bothering him. A lot. But he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. And once more, it had to be his right-hand man who spelled it out for him, in the middle of fucking surgery.

Groaning and swearing, the nurses and interns were taking the brunt of his attitude during a tricky spine operation – it was unusual. Shouty and prone to profanity, yes. Showing his irk at subordinates, never.

"Don't tell me you're still mad about that article," said Jack, who was the only member of his staff who would ever dare speak to him like that in theatre "it's been a week already, no one died. 'Local vet has a girlfriend', Great Britain and the monarchy will endure."

It was difficult to show aggravation when wearing a surgical mask, but the Doctor tried with all his might.

"I don't like people judging me. Not over that. They should only judge my work as a vet."

"You're not a monk."

Not so discreet guffaw from a veteran anaesthesiologist in the background - she had nothing to fear from her boss and had witnessed worse exchanges between the two old friends.

"People expect you to have a life outside of work. That's normal. You don't want them to think you're some sort of raving workaholic nutty, which you actually are. You should be grateful for the article, really."

"But I have a responsibility," countered the Doctor.

"Yes, which is why you're here right now, operating on a paralysed Labrador who will, if all goes well, get back to running across fields thanks to your talent and dedication. Don't tell me that's not enough."

More grumbling from the Doctor, who just wanted to get back to his surgery and stop having to listen to Jack, now.

"You already go above and beyond," his colleague told him once they were on their own out of theatre, checking the post-op X-rays "you don't have to behave like a martyr all the time. Live a little, life's too short, and we'll soon all be dead anyway. What will you have achieved?"

The Doctor turned and raised his arms. "This," he said, gesturing to the walls around them, "this practice. My interns, my students, all that I managed to share and teach. I'm good at this. I'm not so good at the rest." He exhaled slowly, feeling that he had shared too much.

"Except that you are, Doctor. Good at the rest. You just don't want to accept it, that's the problem."


	9. Chapter 9

Though the accumulation of minor issues played a crucial role in the downfall of their relationship, it wasn't until Amy visited the practice with her one-month old baby that things took a turn for the worse. And that they found themselves in an inescapable situation.

It should have been a happy scene. His most loved and admired intern introducing her daughter to the TARDIS team on a Friday afternoon. They had all gathered in the staff room for the celebration, and no one refrained from oohing and aahing at the new-born. Clara was there of course, with cakes. And the Doctor was proudly selected as the first person allowed to hold wee River. He marvelled at how heavy and wiggly she already felt.

"This is very challenging, isn't it? I think I'll let other people try," he said, overwhelmed by the tiny human being in his arms. Puppies he could deal with. Babies were a different matter.

"You won't say that when it's your kid," piped Clara, to boisterous laughter from the staff.

The Doctor froze and didn't notice that Martha had now taken the infant from his careful grasp. No one had picked up on Clara's not so innocent or innocuous words. Except the two of them, it seemed.

 _She looked terrified._

It took him a few minutes to realise that it wasn't because she had said those words, but because she had said them out loud and in his presence, which were two very different things.

He couldn't remember how the rest of the afternoon went. Clara must have left at some point, and it wasn't until he found himself in theatre, hours later, that it hit once more.

What had she meant? Was she speaking in jest? Suggesting something? Or, more worryingly, _announcing_ something? Jesus Christ, he hoped not. He wasn't ready. _They_ weren't ready. Whatever _they_ were at the moment.

"Doctor, are you okay?"

No, they'd been careful, hadn't they? And everyone had laughed. It was just one of those things people said that wasn't to be taken seriously.

"Doctor?"

But why had she looked so shaken? If it was just words, then she shouldn't have reacted that way. And she'd left without saying goodbye, she felt guilty. Guilty over what, though?

"Doctor, shall I get some help?"

They'd never talked about children or anything like that. Sure, he had never been _against_ them. But clearly his life was incompatible. It would be cruel. His work would always have to come first and it wouldn't be fair to them or their mum.

"Doctor! The patient!"

 _Shit_. Back to reality. He had almost severed an artery. Swearing loudly, he thankfully reacted in time and total disaster was averted.

As he angrily ripped off his gloves two hours later once the operation was completed, he cursed himself some more. That was exactly what he hadn't wanted – distraction. If he couldn't concentrate, his patients were at risk. He had managed to balance his life between Clara and the practice until now, but he had just crossed the invisible line he had not so unconsciously set for himself when he embarked on this journey with her. This was it. And he had never imagined that realisation would be so _physically_ painful. Its crushing weight doubled him over on the way to his office. He laid down on the floor and closed his eyes. His bad back wasn't the only culprit this time, and yet the silent tears running from his eyes still took him by surprise. A bittersweet one. _I can still feel this, then._

He went home mid-morning on Saturday, still unsure of what he was going to say to Clara. It wasn't a conversation either of them would like, that was for sure, but they needed to have it. The sooner the better.

Unfortunately, that wasn't to be the case – he found her car missing from its parking spot, and after unsuccessfully ringing her doorbell, he let himself in with his key. She had left him a note in the kitchen, saying she had gone to London to see friends for the weekend. But there was some food for him in the fridge. The Doctor laughed out loud at the silliness of the situation – something was clearly wrong between them and Clara had preferred to avoid any confrontation for now (he couldn't really blame her there), but lo and behold, at least he wouldn't go hungry in her absence.

The Doctor sighed and stubbornly refused to open the fridge. He had hoped they could talk about what had happened. Delaying it would only make things worse.

Burying himself in work at the practice, he didn't notice it was Monday already 48 hours later, and still no news of Clara. She would call, right? Or perhaps he should? They couldn't remain as they were, he'd had to physically force himself into every task during the weekend, each operation and consultation taking a toll on him he hadn't expected. Preventing himself from thinking about her to stay focused was exhausting.

When his phone finally rang during the afternoon, it wasn't Clara. It was The Queen's Veterinary School Hospital asking him if he would be okay teaching a CertVR course at Cambridge vet school this week. He was certified in Veterinary Radiology and a faculty fellow, which meant he was often asked to give lectures. He usually politely declined because of his schedule. But this time, for reasons he couldn't explain, he accepted. Part of him was annoyed at Clara for choosing to avoid their necessary talk, and the other part decided that she was right - maybe escapism was the best strategy. Maybe their problems would just go away. And maybe Tardis would wake up one day and start speaking to him to tell him he was an unprecedented _eejit_.

No call or text from Clara during the few days he spent in Cambridge for his lectures, and come the weekend his backlog of surgeries was so severe that he only stepped out of the operating theatre for bathroom breaks and power naps.

Late on Sunday night, tired and on edge, he drove home. There was a light on at Clara's, and it could only mean she was still awake, since Mycroft was now healed enough and wouldn't trip on the stairs in the dark.

The Doctor knew it was probably a bad idea to go there in his state, but he wanted that feeling of impending doom that was following him everywhere to go away. He wanted to get back to his life. To surgeries that didn't cripple him with fear that he would mess them up if he started thinking about what Clara meant to him. And about how angry he felt at himself for not having been able to stay with her for just a bit longer. Was that really so much to ask? A relationship that could last for more than six months?

Ringing her doorbell. He wouldn't use his key. Not for this.

She opened the door and looked just as worried and anxious as him. Actually, no. She looked as beautiful as always, and he felt his resolve faltering. _Maybe if he'd take her in his arms, everything would be okay?_ But no, she was turning her back on him and walking to the front room. They were having their talk. Now. Ten days overdue.

"How are you?" Nice of her to break the ice.

"Good. I was away in Cambridge to give some lectures this week, I just came back yesterday."

"Yeah, Jack told me."

"You spoke to Jack?"

"I called him, yes."

The Doctor bit the inside of his cheeks, hard. She'd call his colleague but not him? What the fuck? She didn't want to speak to him that badly? Clara didn't seem to think there was anything wrong with this. How could she believe this was a normal reaction to have? You'd think they had the biggest fight ever. But they hadn't, and that was the problem. Perhaps if they'd hashed things out, they wouldn't be in this situation, now.

Instead of letting his frustration take the upper hand, the Doctor breathed in deeply and tried to figure out what he was supposed to say. But it was hard and he was beat, so he went straight to the point.

"What did you mean last Friday? When I was holding the baby?"

From her reaction, it was clear he wouldn't have to be more precise.

"Nothing, it was just a joke," she said, not looking at him.

"Then why did you react like that?" he pressed.

"Like what?"

"Like you felt guilty for having said it. Like you regretted it."

"You're imagining things."

"I'm not!" angry now, "And you know I'm not, or you wouldn't have disappeared last weekend."

" _I'm_ the one who disappeared? That's rich, coming from you."

"I was giving lectures!"

"Yes, and I went to see friends for _two_ days!"

The Doctor scratched his scalp furiously and stumped his feet on the carpet. There was no going back, now.

"Are you pregnant, is that it?" he asked, probably louder than he should have.

"What?" Eyes wide, astounded.

"It's a simple question," the Doctor defended himself, his turn to look at the floor now.

"If you've come here to ask _ridiculous_ questions, you can leave."

"But it's not ridiculous. What you said in the staff room…"

"… was a joke! You think I would announce something like that in this manner? In front of everyone? You really think that I would be capable of this? That I would be so careless?"

Silence.

"And the worst thing is, I _knew_ you would react like that. I knew you would jump to this absurd conclusion. That's why I left. That's why I had to cool down for a couple of days. But not for a whole bloody week!"

The Doctor was completely at a loss. What was he supposed to say? Should he disclose that a tiny _tiny_ part of him was actually sad to hear that she wasn't pregnant? No, better to revert to sarcasm, that was safer.

"I'm sorry for being so _predictable_."

Clara laughed without humour and looked at him before quickly shifting her gaze to the ceiling. The walls. The floor. Anything but him. Her cheeks pinked up and she shifted her weight on her legs. Uncomfortable. Contrite, even. There was something else. Something she was having a hard time revealing.

"I didn't expect it would be like that. I didn't think it would be so quick. And you _warned_ me. You actually warned me that it couldn't happen. And I was stupid enough to believe that it would be fine."

Looking at her feet. Rambling. What the hell was she saying?

"Remember when you asked me a few weeks ago if I was happy?"

The Doctor nodded, a very bad feeling assailing him.

"I didn't lie."

Relief. But then why…

"Except I knew it already back then, and I should have said something. And we wouldn't be where we are, now." Tired smile, slow exhale. "Well, no, we would simply have had this conversation sooner."

"Clara, what are you saying?" The Doctor asked, as quietly as possible. She was scaring him.

"I love you." Her eyes piercing his. His heart stuttering in his chest. Her gaze shifting.

"God, I can't even look at you, it's stupid," she sniffed. He hadn't noticed she had started crying silently. He was glued to the ground. His limbs heavy and unresponsive.

"Clara…"

"Please, don't say anything, just listen." The Doctor didn't know what he would have said anyway. He couldn't think.

She took a deep breath. Swallowed. Kept her eyes resolutely fixed just over his shoulder.

"I didn't plan to fall in love with you, but I did. And I'm sorry. Because I was not supposed to. Not that quickly, anyway. Not when you said that your work would always have to come first. And I know that's how it's supposed to be. This is your life, and you are so gifted at what you do that it would be selfish of me to ask you to change. You save animals every day. And I'm just…"

 _Oh, Clara, you're not_ just _anything. You're so much more…_ But the words didn't come out. And she wasn't done.

"Maybe part of me thought your priorities would shift in time, or that we could somehow find compromises and be happy. And we did, I think. We were. Happy. Right?"

The Doctor nodded. That was the only thing he could do.

"Clearly I was wrong, because we can't go on like this, and that's okay. Jack told me you were angry and distracted lately and I feel responsible for that. I shouldn't have let this go on so long without telling you, it wasn't fair. The more I waited, the more I knew it would hurt. And God, it really does hurt."

A prickle at his eyes. His throat closing up. Why couldn't he say anything?

"But as painful as this is, it's still better than not feeling anything. Or start hating you. Which might happen if we stay together, I think."

He didn't rush to her. He didn't take her in his arms and told her that no, they could work this out. He would change. He would learn how to say the things he knew deep down he was feeling but was incapable of telling her.

She was the one who walked up to him. And laid her right hand just over his heart. Impossible to look at her, now. With her shining eyes and wet cheeks. _You did this. You made her cry._

"I'll go for a while. One of the friends I saw in London had an interpreting job for me, so I'll stay there for a couple of weeks. It's best If we're out of each other's hair. Just until…"

But she didn't finish her sentence. Just until what? Until she stopped feeling what she felt for him? Until he came to his senses and begged her to give them a second chance?

"It's hard for me to look at you, and I won't be there for a while. Maybe a long while," she eventually added. "So promise me you'll take care of yourself." Her hand heavy over his heart. Tethering him. Trembling but so warm and so real.

And then she left him there. Walked upstairs and he knew he wasn't meant to follow. Knew he wasn't meant to say anything. Just leave.

So that's what he did. Numb, adrift. Facing his door. His empty house. His empty bed. Silence.

He couldn't bear it. This stillness felt like death. Two in the morning and he decided to do something he hadn't done for a while. Put on an old pair of jeans and his DM boots. Picked up his jacket, gloves and helmet. Walked to his garage and started his Triumph Bonneville T120. Probably waking up the whole county doing so. Wondering briefly what Clara would think.

Then driving off. Leaving Horsey Corner and Norfolk behind. He didn't have a set destination. He just wanted to drive until he didn't feel like it anymore. The Doctor didn't mind the dark or the empty roads – on the contrary, it meant the only thing he had to concentrate on was driving straight and keeping his motorcycle upright. The roar of the engine would keep him awake.

With a full tank, it was almost morning when he finally stopped for gas. He barely registered where he was – somewhere North, but still in England – then started again, keeping clear off the motorways. He didn't want to think about what had happened. Didn't want to think about anything. He finally stopped when the shops started opening. He was beginning to lose his balance and had had to shake himself awake a couple of times.

The Doctor found a pub just across the border that suited his mood. Old, decrepit and unwelcoming. The locals' accent was thicker than his but no one bothered him when he asked for a coffee then promptly fell asleep over his crossed arms on the table. When he woke up, his drink was cold but it was refilled without question. He wasn't the only person there, surprisingly. A couple of regulars at the bar enjoying their first – or maybe last – round. An old woman doing her crossword puzzles at a table in the back.

The old man who seemed to be owning the place sat heavily across from him a few minutes later. The Doctor hoped that he wouldn't be given a tedious lecture on the meaning of life. He was getting quite tired of those and he wanted to think in peace. What was he supposed to do once he got back to his life? He couldn't run away for ever. His head was pounding and he was already debating whether he should just take a train home and leave the bike there. He was getting too old for this. His knees and back were killing him.

"You're not from around here."

The Doctor wondered if this was something every bartender in the world liked saying. How perceptive of you, mate, he wanted to say. But he refrained from doing so. He was weary, yet still aware that he might not be welcomed here, even if they'd left him nap in peace.

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, but Scottish, are you?"

A nod.

"You can't be all bad, then."

The Doctor smiled.

"What do you do in life, boy?"

 _Boy?_ No one had called him that in decades. But then, the old man was old enough to be his father.

"I'm a vet," The Doctor replied, too tired to come up with a plausible lie.

"Oh, aye? That's nice. So you like dogs, then, hey?"

"Sure."

He whistled, and a German Shepherd that looked as old and arthritic as him came lumbering from behind the bar.

"This is Stella. Isn't she beautiful?"

The Doctor nodded perfunctorily once more.

"So let me guess, problems with the missus at home?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but the old man was making a placating gesture.

"Save your breath son, I've heard all about it. Enough to last me a couple of lifetimes, if you ask me."

He knew now that he was going to have to endure whatever life lesson the old geezer wanted to impart on him. He was petting his dog, who sat passively next to her owner. German Shepherds were fiercely loyal and he could tell it ran both ways.

"You ask me boy, you don't need a woman in your life."

 _Oh, God, he didn't want to hear it_. He still had to call the practice and ask for his consultations to be rescheduled. Then figure out the seven-hour journey back. The last thing he wanted to talk about was the place of a woman in his life. And not just any woman, _Clara_.

"What you need, is a German Shepherd. You won't find more dedicated or loving. Look at me, I'm 74 years old and I never needed a woman in my life. I mean, yeah, they're pretty and they warm your bed at night, but so does my Stella."

"Let me guess, she cooks you breakfast as well?"

The old man laughed, showing his missing teeth.

"That she don't, boy, I'll grant you that. But she just wants food, walks, and cuddles. She'd take a bullet for you in a heartbeat, even. And she never talks back. Dogs can't do anything wrong. And if they do, you can train them not to. Try that with your missus, you'll see how she likes it."

What he _did_ try to do was not to focus on how regressive and sexist the old man's speech sounded. Above all, this made him sad. Was he to become such a man? Was it what he should aspire to? Alone but for his pets? Safe in the certainty that no human being could hurt him? Had he driven 400 miles to be lectured by a pub owner in the middle of nowhere? That was a bit too cliché for his liking. But it was a fitting end to his fucked up day. Too bad it didn't prevent Clara's declaration from resonating in his mind. He wasn't sure it would ever stop. And maybe, just maybe, he didn't want it to.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Cranking the angstometre up to 11 with this chapter and the next, then I'll work on giving those two the happy ending they deserve, promise.

Thanks again for the lovely comments. :)

* * *

In the end, he decided to drive back, but use the motorways to save time. It still took close to six hours and he arrived at the practice well into the afternoon. No one commented on his stiff gait and grim mood. But then, his staff wasn't stupid – approaching him when he was in this state would be akin to suicide. He operated on his two patients that absolutely couldn't wait, and postponed the other surgeries for the next few days. He felt faint with exhaustion and knew he needed food and restorative sleep – the order in which they would be addressed to be determined when he reached his office.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Jack, waiting for him in the dark, the sleekit bugger. The Doctor groaned. He couldn't deal with this, not now. He couldn't deal with someone else pestering him about his life. Not when he felt like said life was hanging by a thread.

"Jack, I swear to God, I really can't right now. I need to lie down and close my eyes."

Not waiting for an answer, the Doctor dragged himself to his adjacent bedroom and laid down over the covers. Food would have to wait, then.

"Donna said you called this morning from Southdean, wherever the hell that is, to move all your consultations."

Pillow over his face. Maybe he'd go away if he ignored him.

"And Clara called me."

Pillow off.

"Clara called you?"

"Yes, she said she saw you leave late last night on your motorbike, but never heard you come back."

Part of him was pissed off at her for having called his colleague to tell him that. He could do as he pleased, after all. She wasn't his keeper. Never had been, and never would be, as it were. Yet, another part of him was heartened by the fact that Clara was still worried about him. Though caring wasn't the problem - it was caring _too much_ , as she'd made clear to him.

"You haven't done that for a long time, driving off in a huff," Jack noted, leaning on the doorjamb. At least his tone was no longer accusing.

"I needed to clear my head," replied the Doctor, closing his eyes.

"You're not going to tell me why, I imagine."

"Not now."

"I think I can guess. You fucked up."

"Yes, I did. Now please leave me alone and close the door behind you."

The American vet sighed but did as he was told.

The next few days were awful, there was no other word for it. It took him a ridiculously long time to do tasks he usually handled easily. And he was so short with his employees that few actively chose to be on shift as the same time as him – tough plan, since he was basically on premises 24/7. He lived on naps, coffee and granola bars. In the past, when humans got too much on his nerves – which was often, let's be honest – he would find solace in the presence of animals. But even that no longer quite cut it. Waggy tails and happy licks left him cold. The Doctor hoped this cloud of misery was temporary. It got so depressing that he even consciously sought out Jack's advice, even though he didn't ask him outright for it. No, it took the Doctor some time to get to his point.

They were in his office late on Friday afternoon. The Doctor hadn't been home for the past week - he didn't want to see Clara's house empty. Tardis was sitting on his lap. She'd been there for him through some difficult times in the past. Looking at her, he was reminded of the old pub owner in Scotland.

"Do you think people like having pets because they feel in control? Because their behaviour is predictable?"

"Are you kidding me? My cat owns me much more that I own him. And this morning he decided he no longer liked the fish flakes he's been eating quite contentedly for three years. So no, I don't think pets are predictable either."

"Yeah, I agree."

"You should be the first to know that you can never decide everything with animals. You see it on a day to day basis at the practice. Science is unpredictable. Science decides for you, sometimes."

"Aye, we might do our best for pets but we still fail. We might get infection, rejection... Some courses of antibiotics might not work. It's you against biology," the Doctor added, glad that they were on the same page. He wouldn't let the old man's warped philosophy get to him.

"I didn't mean just that."

"What?"

"It's us against biology, yes. But biology isn't just for the pets we treat. It's for us mere humans, as well. _Life_ is biology. Falling in love, having babies, that's all biology. It's not always predictable. And you can't escape it either, not really."

The Doctor was stunned. Had Clara talked to him on the phone about her revelation?

"Don't look so surprised. I was there, last week. When Clara made that remark about you behaving differently if you had kids. I saw your reaction. I saw _her_ reaction. I'm guessing you took it badly."

"Why does everyone seem to know how I was going to react except me?"

"You got scared. And she got scared because _you_ got scared."

The Doctor stayed silent, because he knew deep down that his friend was right.

"So you broke up with her."

"No, she broke up with me."

They _hadn't_ talked about it together, then.

"I didn't expect that. She's more realistic than I thought."

"What the fuck do you mean?" That remark had unexpectedly made him very angry very fast.

"Oh, so you're telling me you wouldn't have broken up with her yourself?"

"Maybe so, but not like that."

"Like what?"

"She said we couldn't be together anymore because she was in love with me, and that it was too painful for her."

Now the Doctor had finally got the courage to voice his plight, he expected Jack to speak up. But the man stayed silent, still as a statue on his rickety sofa. You couldn't shut him up at the best of times, and now he was being mute? Now when he was dying for his advice? His reproach and his mocking, even?

They both had work to get back to you. Work that was giving the Doctor far less pleasure than it used to. Work that had almost become a bad excuse for not living his life. Jack must have seen how desperate his boss was for a semblance of comfort. A kind word. Or a kick in the butt, really. Anything.

"If you want to escape biology, then you have to prepare yourself to be very miserable. You know that, already."

He stood up and left, and the Doctor was alone with his thoughts once more.

"I think he's right, Tardis. I think I enjoy being miserable. I just have to remember what it feels like."

Clara came back, as she'd said, a couple of weeks later. The Doctor had barely stepped foot in his house in her absence, but it still came as a relief to see her car in its usual place. At least she'd still be there. At least he hadn't chased her off.

That came three months later.

Three months filled with little sleep, hard cases, and crushing doubts. Every day, the Doctor wondered if he'd made the right choice. Every day, he tried to remember if it had always been this difficult to get up in the morning. He couldn't blame it all on Clara – he'd managed to live his life and do his work properly before he met her, after all. Yet gradually, he came to realise that maybe things hadn't been so _hunky dory_ before he happened upon her on a February morning. Maybe he'd just been very good at pretending.

He went back to the beach a few times during those three months. Not that he was actively looking for her, but part of him wanted to make sure that she would still be there each morning. And she was there alright. Her and Mycroft. She would carefully avoid him and he had never tried to approach her, respecting her wishes. _It's hard for me to look at you._

Mainly, he felt lonely. Sure, his staff was there everyday. And when he managed to control his grumpiness, they had nice chats. Jack was also usually available to put him in his place if his ego got the upper had. Or remind him basic human needs, like sleeping and eating, when he forgot.

Clearly, none of this would have happened if he'd been there on that day. But as it were, he was consulting in another clinic. And it was easy to lay the blame at someone else's door.

What happened fitted in once sentence. She was a client, she was friendly, and they had far too much to drink. So much so, that the next morning the Doctor wasn't sure what had happened exactly. And how far it had gone. But she was next to him in his bed and his head was throbbing.

It wasn't the first time something like that happened, though it had been a few years. He was pants at forging long lasting relationships, but then he wasn't looking for long lasting relationships. So when a nice woman started talking to him and they both seemed to like each other, he gave it a try and saw where it led them. Often, nowhere. But once in a while, somewhere, and he didn't think there was any harm in enjoying one night with no strings attached.

Until today, at least.

Today, he felt physically sick. And not just because he'd had too much to drink on an empty stomach. No, there was something else. Self disgust. Guilt, even. And he knew exactly why.

It was actually revealing that he had needed so much alcohol to pull this off. Too bad he hadn't managed to auto-sabotage himself in the process – a miracle that he'd been able to perform, really. Though from the brief flashes that were finally starting to assail him as he showered, the previous night was definitely nothing to brag about.

She was thankfully soon awake and on her way out – each passing second she spent in his house made him gradually more and more uncomfortable. He couldn't even remember what they had talked about. From the empty bottles and glasses he collected from the living room, it was clear that he had drunk a lot more than her. _God_ , he must have been dreadful company. Unsurprisingly, she didn't say anything about wanting to see him again, bless her. Just one more reason to feel guilty about the whole thing.

The Doctor closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief. As he was debating whether one aspirin would be enough to cure his frightful but deserved headache, he gasped audibly. _Clara was just about to cross the street._ It was 7AM, she was on her way to the beach with Mycroft, and she needed to walk by his house to reach it. Except that she had stopped dead in her tracks. She'd seen the woman leaving his place. And if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that she wasn't stupid. She knew _exactly_ what had taken place.

Instead of wondering whether it was Murphy's Law or fate, the Doctor decided that he couldn't stay inside and pretend he hadn't seen her. It wasn't fair to her and he felt the need to explain himself. To apologise. He couldn't let it fester. Not this time.

Clara was rooted on the pavement, her eyes following the woman's car driving away. She saw him approaching and didn't back away – she wanted this confrontation just as much as him, surprisingly.

"Are you going to have the decency to admit that this woman was just in your bed?"

Oh, she was _ready_. Eyes firmly fixed on the ground but up for anything he'd throw at her.

"I'm not going to lie about that, no."

"Good."

"Although another thing I will admit is that I don't remember any of it, I was blitzed," the Doctor added, thinking honesty was the best remedy. The _only_ remedy in this situation. She might not be looking at him directly, but he knew she could see right through him, always had.

"That's no excuse!"

"No, it's not."

"And what do I care, anyway? You can do as you please."

"Sure."

"You can sleep with the whole county and drink yourself to a stupor."

"I'll get right on that."

Finally, he'd managed to have her raise her eyes to his. Though he immediately regretted it. There was fury in her gaze, yes. But also deep-seated misery.

"Is it really too much to ask for you to be a little more discreet? Do you have to rub it in my face?" Defeated, shoulders slumped.

"No, it was really stupid, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"You're a bloke, I shouldn't have expected anything different. I should be thankful at least that it's been three months. Unless it's simply the first time I'm lucky enough to be out of my house at the right time?"

"Jesus, no! It was a mistake. A tactless, crass mistake, and I'm truly sorry."

Her eyes sweeping over his thin figure. Four-day old stubble, blood shot eyes and yesterday's clothes. She looked sad for a different reason now.

"I've been thinking about moving."

His heart pounding, preventing him from reacting at once to this dreadful announcement.

"No, don't do that," he eventually supplied, "I should be the one who has to move. I'm the one who fucked up."

"You didn't fuck up, you just…" She paused, and looked at her dog, sitting patiently at her feet, as though the two humans standing next to him weren't having the most heart-wrenching discussion ever.

"I can't watch you destroy yourself," she went on. "I mean look at you…"

"It's been a difficult time," he admitted weakly.

"Yeah," Clara agreed, her lips forming a thin line.

" _Please_ don't move. I know how much you love this house."

She nodded, and turned back towards her place.

"I haven't made up my mind yet, but I'm not sure I want those memories, anymore."

She had started walking away, Mycroft diligently following.

"You're not going to the beach?" he asked stupidly.

Turning back, looking at his house as though it was infected with something vile and contagious.

"Not today, no."

The Doctor thought it might have been one of the last time he ever saw her. Which was why he stayed rooted to his spot, unmoving, his eyes fixed on her disappearing figure. He watched her reach a field behind her house then that was it. Gone forever. But he was wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Strangely enough, this chapter was the first that came to me when I started imagining this story. Go figure. I'm not trying to play with your nerves and promise to post the next installment on Sunday. :)

* * *

Maybe he had needed to reach rock bottom to get to this point. Maybe there was still something worth rescuing inside him - enough self-respect to make him realise he couldn't go on like this. This life he was living wasn't healthy.

So the first thing he did once Clara's silhouette had disappeared was cleaning up his house, thoroughly. Clearing the fridge of old leftovers, taking out the trash, changing the sheets, cleaning the bathroom. Then something else he hadn't done for a long while – going for a run. He was out of breath much too soon and felt that each stride against the hard asphalt was a 'fuck you' to his pounding head, but it was a welcomed pain. A _clean_ pain that left him satisfied after his second shower of the day.

This wouldn't get him Clara back, he knew. But it didn't mean he wouldn't at least try to convince her to stay.

The Doctor thought he was on the right track to salvation – that he just needed to figure out _how_ he was going to find the opportunity to speak to her. To ask her to reconsider. And not just reconsider her place in Norfolk, but perhaps her place in his life. Yet instead of him coming to Clara, it was her coming to him. In the least favourable possible way. As a client.

Late afternoon. Two days after their ill-fated conversation. He was just coming out of surgery and he thought he heard her voice. Her cries. Getting closer to its supposed source in a nearby exam room. Finding Jack, a teary-eyed Clara and her dog on the examination table with two nurses surrounding.

 _What the hell?_

He understood from Jack's face that he hadn't been supposed to find out. This was his own practice, for God's sake. How could he not know?

Before he erupted, his colleague quickly dragged him out of the room.

"Jack, what the _fuck_ is happening here?" he asked urgently.

"Before you say anything…"

"I'll say what I fucking want, tell me what's going on, now!"

"She called me. Clara. Two days ago. Something happened to Mycroft and she didn't know what to do."

"What?"

"We think it's ethylene glycol poisoning, we ran the tests."

"How did…"

"Antifreeze."

And yes, it happened. Leaky old cars in Winter and dogs drinking from puddles. But where would have Mycroft found the contaminated water?

"Clara said she took him on a walk Sunday morning, and they passed through a scrapyard. Reckons it might have been there."

Sunday morning. When she'd seen the woman coming out of his house and didn't go to the beach. _Oh, God…_

"Mycroft got sick and lethargic when they came back and she called me. Asked for a vet recommendation in the area. She didn't want to come here." His tone accusing, and rightly so. His look all knowing, as if the reason was written all over his face.

"I had to _convince_ her to come here."

"And Mycroft?"

His reaction said it all. Prognosis was bad - it usually was.

"Why the hell did you hide it from me? I had a right to know, this is _my_ practice!"

Fury as an answer because it was easier.

"Did you listen to a word I've just said? She didn't want to be here! She was willing to risk her dog's life just so that she wouldn't have to see you."

Hands running through his hair anxiously. He had to do something to help. Right now.

"It's too late. We did all we could for two days and she knows that. I'm not sure she'd want you there when we let him go, but you can try to ask her."

The Doctor felt his stomach drop. _That was it?_ The decision had been taken without him?

"There must be something we can do," he insisted, urgently walking back towards the examining room.

But Jack held him back, gripping his upper arm.

"There's _nothing_ we can do. His heart is about to give out. I've just managed to convince her that we had to let him pass under the anaesthetic. That it was for the best. _Don't_ give her false hope."

The Doctor trusted his right-hand man's judgement. Always had. But this was Clara! And he felt horribly responsible. He couldn't just let this go.

"I have to talk to her at least. I have to see Mycroft for myself," he pleaded.

"I don't know what the hell you did to her, but she's in pieces. If she hits you, I won't hold her back. You probably deserve it," Jack warned.

"Fair enough," he agreed, and the American vet let go of his arm.

Entering the room again. _Oh, Clara…_

The look on her face. And it was absolutely his fault. No two ways about it. He had caused it – that distant gaze and red rimmed eyes, those pale, sunken cheeks. It was all on him. Over one stupid mistake. One bad decision after another on a cold, drunken night that once again he wished had simply never happened.

But worst of all of course – her dog. The poor animal was going to die because of him. This would destroy her. Completely and utterly. And for what? A night he couldn't remember except for the hangover it had left him with? Cheap spirits, fumbling hands and a rushed feeling that hadn't been the least bit satisfying. How wonderful to have managed to obliterate the one good thing that had happened to him in a very long while in such a careless act. He couldn't do things simply, no. He couldn't _just_ break a girl's heart. He had to kill her dog as well. And stump on the remains of her soul. Great, just _fucking_ great. Veterinary wonder, my arse. You can't even take care of the pets of the people you l…

"Clara, I'm so sorry."

She didn't look at him. And why would she? It had been what, 10 months since he'd fixed her dog the first time? Something like that. _Jesus_ , not even a year. Not even a year since that awful, awful night. And here he was once more. The cause of so much grief. If the first time had not been _completely_ his fault (during the worst of his sleepless nights, he was still debating the issue of responsibility), this time there wasn't room for doubt. If that dog was lying on the table, his heart pumping for all its might and ready to burst, it was down to him. Soon, the muscle would be too weak to carry on. He knew that. Clara knew that. He could read it on her face. Her beautiful face that wouldn't turn towards him.

"Do you think we could do it outside? Or… Or do you think he wouldn't last until we…"

She was looking at Jack, asking her question. Not at him. Jack, who had been dealing with the situation for the last two days. Hiding her and her dog from him. Agreeing to her wishes because he knew how stubborn she could be. And how much of an arsehole he had been to her. It had been plain to see in his eyes. _How could you fuck this up? You had everything. And you blew it._ He was right. Of course he was. How could he have fucked up so badly? So badly that she had to have been persuaded to come here. Even though her dog, a creature that she loved more than anything in the world, was very sick. Had to assure her that he, the fucking eejit who had wrecked her life, wouldn't have to know. That they could hide this from him, somehow. At his own practice, no less. And it had worked! For two days, he had been none the wiser. Completely oblivious to the fact that a dog was being treated for acute poisoning in one of the exam rooms by his most trusted vet and a couple of nurses.

He'd only found out by accident when he heard her voice. Her swallowed sobs and her distress. A sound he had heard one too many times in the last year. A sound he would definitely take to his grave, even if he never saw her again after that night. Which was entirely likely. How could she ever want to see him after this ordeal? The third taking place in his practice in less than a year. He certainly had a knack for making this girl miserable. Too bad he had only started to realise that he was finding life without her quite unbearable. Oh, the irony…

"I'm not sure, Clara. His heart rate's too erratic and it won't settle down. I think it's best if we do it here."

Clara nodded, understanding Jack's words but struggling with the impact they caused. Her hands were shaking and she gripped them against her chest as an uncontrollable whimper escaped her lips. The Doctor must have said or done something then, because she finally looked at him. Had he said her name? Moved imperceptibly towards her at the sound of her anguish? Whatever it was, his feet had taken him right in front of her. She couldn't hold his gaze long. She had told him how painful it was for her to look at him, after all. Her brown eyes slipped to just over his shoulder, defeat palpable in her stooped posture and trembling chin.

"Doctor…" she whispered, and he understood. Despite everything, she still needed him. Even if it was only for a few seconds. Even if the fleeting feeling of someone's arms around her wasn't enough to erase the fact that she hated his guts at the moment. And had every right to.

"I don't know if I can do it," she said against his chest, in a voice so soft and so broken that he almost didn't hear her. He held her stronger, knowing that was all he could do. The Doctor felt warm tears rolling down his neck underneath his scrubs. Her crying was silent, now. She was utterly drained after two days of quiet vigil and vain hope. He stroked her back and felt anger at the tears that had started to roll down his own cheeks. This was her moment. He wasn't allowed to be sad. It was all his fault.

He hadn't held her as she cried ever since that night when he'd lost his temper and punched the living daylights out of her tormentor. Ever since he'd believed that they would never be able to have any future together. Ever since she'd proven him wrong. Oh, so wonderfully wrong.

With that memory firmly implanted into every fibre of his being, she gently but firmly pushed him away. Her right hand over his heart in a move that hurt just as much as the last time she had done it. No, it was worse. It was so much worse. There had still been hope the last time. And now… Now he had screwed things up beyond repair by sleeping with a woman who meant nothing to him because he was too much of a coward to tell the woman he actually loved that he had been wrong. That he had grossly underestimated her place in his life. That his priorities weren't what they used to be. And now her dog would also have to pay the price of his stupidity.

Clara was about to turn her back on him to face Jack once more. It felt as though it was the last time she would ever acknowledge his presence. She would take the rest of this journey alone. He wouldn't be allowed to intervene.

"I'm ready," she told the younger vet.

 _No. Screw that._ That dog wouldn't die. There had to be a way. There had to be a way to fix him. He couldn't fix his life. He couldn't fix Clara's broken heart. But he could fix her dog. That was the only thing he was good at, after all.

"Say it to me one more time, Jack. You're sure it's ethylene glycol poisoning?" he asked in a rush, coming closer to the table.

His colleague sighed, knowing from experience that his boss wouldn't let this go easily, then nodded.

"We're sure. We thought it might have been a tick at first, but he deteriorated quickly and we found no puncture wound. And he's not a small dog. Then the labs confirmed the ethylene glycol."

"You tried ethanol."

"We did. Got it specially delivered. Administered within 6 hours. If it was to work it would have."

"Dialysis?"

"Of course."

"Peritoneal dialysis though, right?"

"Well, yeah, what else would you…"

"We received the hemofilter, didn't we? We could try that."

"He's tachycardic, hypervolemic, and his kidneys are shutting down rapidly. He's not the right candidate for us to try that."

"Doctor?" asked Clara, who had moved silently towards them during the exchange. It would be foolish and dangerous to acknowledge the glimmer of hope in her eyes, but he'd take what he could get. It was better than nothing.

"We only do peritoneal dialysis on dogs. With humans, we do hemofiltration, with a machine that basically cleans the patient's blood through an extracorporeal circuit."

Clara was smart, and he could see she didn't need more explanation than that.

"And it could work?"

 _Jesus. Tread carefully there. Don't give her false hope, remember._

"I don't know," he replied honestly, "it's never been tried on dogs, as far as I know. But we just received the dialyser. I haven't had time to test it yet."

"Better than pulling the plug," she surmised, although doubt was still lingering in her tone. How could it not? She didn't want her dog to suffer. It hurt to see her turn towards Jack, but he understood.

"What do you think? Is it worth a shot?"

Jack looked at him in turn. The final decision had to be up to Clara, but the American vet wasn't his right-hand man for nothing. He could oppose his decisions. Quite vehemently if he chose to, which he had always appreciated. But not today. _Please_ , not today. It was crazy, reckless and probably dangerous, but then many of his procedures were. If this succeeded, then it wouldn't _just_ save a dog. It might also salvage his very precarious standing in Clara's life. If this failed, then he wouldn't technically be in a worse situation than 5 minutes ago. A dog would die, and his owner would disappear from his life for good. But if it worked… God, he shouldn't let himself hope. It was vain and very _very_ risky.

The look lasted for ages, it seemed. Although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Jack shrugged, and the Doctor was almost certain he was going to crush his idea when he did the opposite.

"I'll go get the hemofilter and a couple more nurses."


	12. Chapter 12

The next four hours were a flurry of movements, barked orders and rhythmic beeps that gradually, very gradually slowed down to a less alarming rate. Thank God he had read about it extensively before embarking upon his first canine hemodiafiltration. Probably the first ever performed in the world, but he didn't give it a second thought. Publication was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

He hadn't raised his eyes once from the patient, and the only distraction from his task had been to ask for his evening's surgeries to be either rescheduled or handled by someone else. A new shift had started at some point, but the nurses had stayed, understanding implicitly the importance of this particular outcome, bless them.

He believed that Clara was still nearby in the background somewhere, but she hadn't said a thing and had let him work undisturbed.

Mycroft wasn't out of the woods by any stretch of the imagination, but his status had improved. His heart rate had slowed down, and his kidney function partly restored. It was touch and go, but euthanasia was no longer at the forefront of their minds. For now, at least. All this he relayed to Clara, who was visibly swaying on her feet and had tears rolling down her cheeks, most likely without her knowledge. The Doctor was certain she had been offered somewhere to sit at some point – the nurses loved her dearly – but she had stayed resolutely up to better observe the proceedings, albeit out of the way.

The Doctor wanted to take her in his arms once more, if only to brace her and prevent her from falling face first on the linoleum, which he was certain would happen soon.

"You should get some rest, we'll monitor him closely throughout the rest of the night and you can come back tomorrow. We'll call if there's anything, of course."

He was standing a couple of respectful feet away. But still close enough to catch her if she lost her balance.

Clara nodded, although he could tell it was a struggle for her to accept to leave her dog behind. He'd been unplugged from the dialyser and there was nothing to do but wait, now. They might repeat the procedure the next day if the Doctor felt it was warranted.

He wouldn't say no to a kip himself, if he was honest. It was late, and he was exhausted, having spent 5 hours in surgery already before he came across Clara.

"I'll drive home," she said.

 _The fuck you are in your state_ , he wanted to reply, but didn't. He no longer had the right to say stuff like that. Hell, he never really had it in the first place, she was her own woman. But driving when she could barely stand up was plain stupid.

There was a spark of rebellion and stubbornness in her eyes. The what-you're-gonna-do-about-it-ness that was so unequivocally Clara. He almost laughed out loud. _God_ , how he missed her, it was silly.

Time to find a compromise. They used to be good at those. Until it all went to shit.

"Why don't you go lie down on my bed? I have a few patients to check then I'll drive you home."

That way, they'd both get to go home and get some well deserved sleep. He hoped it would work. She was always quick to point out that he needed his own rest, after all.

Clara must have been completely drained, because she didn't put much of a struggle and went to the small bedroom adjacent to his office with barely a complaint.

The 'few patients to check' turned into an almost two-hour thing, since he couldn't help but thoroughly examine the patients that his surgeons had operated on in his place, and he had to review all the charts and X-rays twice before he felt satisfied. He went to check on Clara's dog one last time, and the sun was two hours away from rising when he finally made his way to his cramped bedroom.

Clara was asleep. Although he could tell it had been a well fought battle. She was curled up precariously close to the edge of the bed, her shoes and jacket still on, expecting him to arrive to drive her home any second. The Doctor felt bad for having kept her waiting, but at least she was resting, although in a very uncomfortable position.

"How is he?" she mumbled.

Not quite resting, then.

"Good. He's stable. Peaceful." Short words. To the point. He was beat and wanted to shower and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.

"What time is it?"

"A little before five," he admitted, sheepish. To this, she opened her eyes more fully and looked at him. He was probably a sorry sight.

"Come to bed," she almost ordered, "there's no point driving home at this hour."

He must have looked doubtful, because she quickly added, "I'll make you some room," even though she was already almost on the floor and the bed was barely big enough for him in the first place.

Of course. The last time ever she would suggest they slept in the same bed, he had to be completely shattered and barely able to compute her words.

She must have interpreted his silence as reticence as she sat up quickly (too quickly, given her unfocussed gaze). With a frown and a shrug, she was on the verge of standing up with a quiet, "Forget it, you're right. I'm rested enough. I'll drive home."

"No!" he interrupted, probably louder than necessary because she stopped moving at once.

"Stay there, I'll kip on the sofa next door," he added, thinking in his befuddled state that it was best they stayed apart. A small part of him couldn't help but think that she might be tempted to smother him in his sleep, whether her dog was alive or not a moot point.

"There's no way you'll be able to sleep on that lumpy thing," she pointed out, correctly (he had tried and failed to do so several times in the past).

"You still need to rest," he countered, his words slurring.

"You need sleep more than I do. You have to work tomorrow, I don't."

Silence.

She sighed and rubbed her temples. He could imagine the fatigue-induced migraine pulsating being her eyes. Hell, he didn't need to imagine it – it was there for him as well. With a vengeance.

"Come on, this is silly. We can both lie down and sleep in this bed, I won't bother you."

Bother him? That's what she was afraid of? He was only joking when he said she would try to kill him in his sleep for what he had done to her. No, as far as he was concerned, sleeping next to her knowing that they weren't together anymore and never would be again was torture. She'd be right next to him. Her perfume would assail his senses. Her sighs. Her warmth. The tiny contented noises she made in her sleep. He'd want to hold her close and never let go.

"It's just for a few hours," she added, not knowing that her words proved his point.

Just a few hours of heaven. Just a few hours of coming to terms with his utter _utter_ idiocy. Enjoy it while it lasts, matey boy. It will never happen again.

"Ok," he relented, although part of him was screaming that this was a bad idea. But it had been silenced by the other, bigger part, that just wanted to be horizontal somewhere vaguely comfortable _right the fuck now_.

"I'll just have a quick shower," he said, knowing from experience that a 20 hour shift with stressful procedures wreaked havoc on personal hygiene, "you can go back to sleep."

"If it's for my sake, then don't. I don't mind, you know that," she replied with a small but catastrophic smile.

 _Yeah, he knew that alright_. She'd never complained when he was too tired to shower and just wanted to crawl in bed next to her and hug her to sleep. He'd done it many times in the past. The ever so distant past. He was about to bawl his eyes out – it's fatigue, just fatigue – so he turned quickly, removed his clogs and socks and put on a fresh top (he'd at least spare her that). When he turned back, he could see her underneath the comforter now. Facing the wall and with her back to him. Her jacket, shoes and jeans discarded at the end of the bed. He placed his phone and pager on the bedside table, and debated whether he should sleep over the covers or not.

"Get in," she muttered, clearly half asleep already but still able to read his thoughts.

The Doctor did so and rested his head on the pillow they now shared, his left arm underneath. Before he could decide what the hell he was supposed to do with his right arm, she settled the issue for him, and grabbed his hand so that it now rested on her tummy beneath hers. Funny how they'd effortlessly found themselves in their usual positons. Habits died hard, after all. With that sobering realisation in mind, the Doctor closed his eyes, inhaled the smell of her hair and pretended, just for a minute, that all was right with the world once more. Sleep came well before he could persuade himself otherwise.

As it turned out, the Doctor didn't have the time to enjoy what he was certain had been the last time he'd sleep next to Clara. When he opened his eyes again, he knew for sure that several hours had passed. Even though there was only a small skylight in his bedroom, he was certain it was mid-morning already. He was good with that.

They apparently hadn't shifted an inch during their short night, and the Doctor felt awful for having to move. He'd risk waking her, yes. But if he lingered too much where he was, his nose in her hair and his hand imperceptibly stroking her stomach, he'd never leave this bed. Not ever again. He'd just stay there, thank you very much.

One deep breath, and he slowly rolled to his other side. Checking his phone first to see the time – 9.52, he had been right – and make sure there were no urgent messages. His first appointment was at eleven. He'd better get a move one if he wanted to check his patients before that. But first, a shower. He needed to feel like a human being again. Even a worthless one would do for now.

When he emerged, he was glad to see that Clara was still asleep. He put on clean clothes and picked up his stuff from the bedside table before exiting the room. He usually started his day by checking patient lab results received by email during the night. But they could wait. Mycroft might not. Although he knew someone would have come for him if the situation had been dire.

At 10.45, cutting it very short, he checked on Clara once more before going down to his consultation room. She was sitting on the bed, although it was apparent she hadn't been awake long.

"Hi," he said. He was thrilled to notice that she managed to hold his gaze, this time.

"Hi. Did you sleep at all?"

He shrugged, but nodded.

"You?"

"Same," she replied. "Thank you for letting me stay."

"Of course," he replied automatically, even though to him there had never been any 'letting her' do anything. More the other way around, really. He should thank her for letting him sleep next to her. In his own bed at his own practice, but still.

"Did you check on him this morning?" she asked, cutting his rambling short. "I didn't hear you leave."

"I did, he's doing good."

"Yeah?" that glimmer of hope much brighter now.

"Yeah. I can't be certain, but it's looking good. He shouldn't need another dialysis."

She exhaled heavily. Her gaze still hadn't left his, and he felt stupidly self-conscious.

"Thank you," she said, her words heavy with meaning.

He looked down at his shoes. _Thank you for almost killing my dog but saving him_. _Again._ What a joke. Why was she thanking him?

"I mean it," she said, her socked feet appearing in his line of vision. Without her shoes on, the top of her head arrived just below his chin. He didn't have to raise his head to check. He knew it from experience. Just the right height for a hug.

"You feel responsible." A statement of fact, not a question.

He nodded.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"It's not your fault. Mycroft is simply the unluckiest dog in the world. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine."

She was aiming for levity, but he was having none of it.

The hand she placed over his heart made him finally look up. There was a smile there, though it wasn't very bright. He couldn't tell if it was happy or not. Still, better than the tears of the two previous times she had done it. She didn't need to say the words again, they were clear as day in her eyes and in her touch.

"We'll talk, yeah? Not today, and probably not this week either because I still need some time to deal with everything that's happened, but soon."

He nodded. Yes, they should definitely talk.


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft stayed under observations for several days, although the Doctor would have admitted freely that he was being overly cautious. He _was_ an unlucky patient, and as a vet he just couldn't afford to take any risk. As Clara's ex – but hopefully one day her friend, at least – he _really_ couldn't afford anything else happening to the poor dog.

She came to the practice every day. And though it was mostly Jack or his interns taking her to see Mycroft and giving her news, she didn't ostensibly avoid him. She'd wave discreetly at him and when he asked her how she was she would answer in complete sentences. They weren't quite ready to have their talk yet, but there was progress.

A week after he had first been admitted without his knowledge to the practice, Mycroft was finally deemed ready to go home.

"Any plans for Christmas?" the Doctor asked, as he was helping Clara put Mycroft in her car.

It was a safe question, with the holiday three days away.

"I'm driving to Blackpool to see my father."

"Oh, right."

The Doctor had hoped they would have been able to talk soon, but it didn't look that way. His disappointment must have shown on his face, because Clara quickly replied that it was only for a few days.

"And you?" she asked politely.

"Nothing special," he answered, not wanting to explain that he didn't have any family to go to. They'd briefly touched upon the subject, but Clara had never asked for too many details, understanding it was a sore point.

"There will probably be cats ingesting tinsel and such to keep you busy, I'm sure."

"Actually, you might not be far off the mark, there."

They were both reverting to banter to diffuse the heavy atmosphere. They hadn't been on their own since she'd woken up in his bed the previous week. Mycroft was now securely inside the car, and the freezing wind was making the Doctor regret that he hadn't taken the time to pick up his coat. But he didn't want to see Clara go just yet.

"Thanks again for all you did for Mycroft. And thank Jack for me, I heard he was in theatre."

"Sure," he replied curtly. He was still having a hard time accepting any praises for this whole debacle.

"And send me the invoice this time," Clara requested.

"Of course."

A beat.

"You're not going to do it, are you?" she realised.

"Not on your life."

Clara sighed and shook her head. Then looked straight at him. She was getting better at that, and the Doctor was the one made uncomfortable by her intense gaze.

"You've got to stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Feeling responsible for everything that's happened to Mycroft. For everything that's happened to _me_ even."

"I can't help it."

"I know, but you need to learn. You shouldn't put the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. It's unhealthy. Dangerous, even."

His turn to sigh. She was right, he knew. And not the first person to tell him that.

"Are you still thinking about moving?" he asked after a few seconds pregnant with tension. He wasn't changing the subject. Not really. Everything depended on her staying, after all. This was the most important question of them all. And there was a fair few he wanted to ask her.

"I don't know. Haven't decided yet. I still need to think about it."

The Doctor nodded, stopping himself from begging her not to leave once more. It had to be her decision. But it didn't mean he would have to like it.

She left soon after that, and it took the Doctor a few minutes to shake himself off and go back to work.

The next day was tediously quiet. It wasn't a very busy time of year – that would come _after_ Christmas - except for emergencies, which never really stopped. But there hadn't been one for a few days, and the Doctor felt on edge. He'd cleared his backlog of surgeries and had seen all his patients by mid-afternoon. The staff was excited about Christmas and talking amongst themselves about their plans. For their sake, the Doctor was glad that the clinic was calm, and he insisted they should all go home early to be with their families. It was warmly welcomed and he realised he had been particularly shitty with them lately. He resolved to be careful about that in the future.

He left around nine, having exhausted all possible occupations at the practice. There was probably enough food in his fridge for a small meal, and he might turn on the telly. He'd just have to check if it was still working first – he hadn't put it on in for months so he couldn't be sure.

As he was contemplating going for a midnight stroll with Tardis – there was no way he could sleep just now, he was far too high strung still – the doorbell rang. Carollers in Horsey Corner at 11PM in this cold? No way.

It was Clara.

An out of breath Clara who'd crossed the road in a thin sweater.

"I thought you were on your way to Blackpool!"

The Doctor hadn't even checked for a light at her place when he drove home, thinking she had already left.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," she replied quickly.

"Come on in, you'll freeze to death," he said, pulling her inside.

"I haven't thought this through," she admitted once the door was closed.

"Right," he replied, although he was completely lost.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning for Blackpool," she repeated, "and I promise we'll talk when I'm back."

"Okay."

"So this is just for tonight. It doesn't change anything."

"What do…"

But he didn't have time to finish his sentence. Clara was kissing him. Hard. Her hands were ruffling his hair and she only allowed him to breathe again after having thoroughly cleansed his tonsils. His back was against the wall and he spared only a second to question himself whether it was a good idea. But she'd started it, and even if it was just for tonight, as she'd said, then he'd take it. _God_ , whatever she could give him he'd take. So he kissed her back just as meticulously. Biting her lip and eliciting a wanton moan that went straight to his groin. Oh, how he'd missed that. If there was one thing they had been very good at it was this – making the other plead for release.

He slid his hands to her hips and pulled. She understood at once and secured her legs around his waist with his help. The Doctor groaned when she started moving against him and wondered if he would have time to take this upstairs.

"I just have two questions for you," she announced, her lips slowly trailing from his throat to his ear.

"Aye?"

"First, did you change the sheets?"

She didn't need to be more precise than that – he understood exactly what she was referring to.

He nodded and pressed her harder against him.

"Second question," breathless for the most wonderful reason, "were you wearing protection?"

He pushed her against the opposite wall, his arms protecting her from the impact.

"Yes," he enunciated clearly, his eyes bearing down on hers.

"Good." Gripping his curls tightly and pulling him down for another kiss.

They didn't talk much after that. But the Doctor remembered admitting that he'd missed her at one point. His lips against her pulse point, her hands trailing over the smooth skin of his back.

He wasn't surprised to see the other side of his bed empty when he woke up the next morning, yet it still hurt a bit. Last night hadn't been about preventing her from driving home to her family. Still, it didn't mean he would have minded having her next to him. Having her next to him each and every morning from now on. The Doctor sighed, and rolled over, feeling his muscles stretch. They didn't use to go at it quite so intensely, but he wasn't complaining.

Looking at himself in the foggy mirror as he exited the shower a little while later, he realised what last night had been about for Clara, partly so at least - reclaiming something. As the small red marks across his back and chest testified. He'd have to wear a T-shirt underneath his scrubs, and that realisation made him smile.

The smile stayed on his face most of the day at the practice. True, it wasn't because they'd slept together that things would magically sort themselves out, but it had to be a step in the right direction. Hopefully. Clara wouldn't have done that if she still resented him. Or else her scratches and bites would have been deeper. And he probably wouldn't have been able to wake up at all this morning.

His joy somehow dispersed as new patients started piling up. They were short-staffed due to the holidays and one of the only clinics opened in the area, so the Doctor was prevented from lingering on the previous night's memories for too long. It had fittingly started to snow rather heavily as well, which meant more RTAs and some cases of frostbites. He never liked those – owners believing that their dogs would be fine in below zero temperatures outside. Fair enough for Malamutes and Newfoundlands, not so much for poodles and whippets.

The incessant back and forth between the parking lot to check on pets as they arrived to the too warm operating theatre eventually caught up with his body, and by Thursday his sniffles had turned to wracking coughs. It was the day after Christmas and one of the busiest days of the year – there was no way he could just slack off. Not on that day. Not that he ever slacked off, granted, but still. Every child in the UK who had just received a pet for Christmas was now panicking at this new responsibility they had been given. And many a puppy, kitten or rabbit would now try to escape from their new owners' grasps, potentially breaking one or more legs in the process.

So this was very bad timing indeed. But one couldn't just ask one's immune system to politely _fuck off_. No. So the Doctor agreed to try just about anything his creative receptionists suggested to get rid of his cold. Tea with ginger, honey and lemon juice. _Easy._ Check. Echinacea and myrrh. _What the hell?_ Check. Vodka and tabasco. _Interesting_. Check. Cod liver oil. _Disgusting._ Still check.

Whether it was due to all those brave attempts at fixing his condition or simply his illness progressing, by the time Saturday rolled along, aspirin, cold medicine and paracetamol no longer managed to keep his fever at bay. Jack was thankfully back from his Christmas break, and discovered that his boss was even more obstinate and fractious when he was ill. He didn't think it had been possible. Although somehow, he should have guessed.

"For God's sake, go home! I can look after the practice, you need to rest," he tried once more. The staff had given up trying to convince him that he wasn't well enough to work that morning, and now simply allowed him to do as he pleased as long as he didn't endanger the patients.

His pig-headed friend was suturing a wound on an adventurous cat who hadn't been able to make friends with the neighbourhood fox. He was sitting down, at least. That was something. He wouldn't brain himself on the exam table. Not too badly, anyway.

"I can't get any sicker," the Doctor pointed out.

"Thank Christ. Any sicker and you'd be dead!"

"You're exarerating. Edjaderating? You're lying. I wouldn't."

"You're sweating like mad."

"It's the scialytic lamp."

"There isn't one, it's in theatre," Jack informed him.

"Oh. So that's why I can't see what I'm doing."

He marvelled at the fact that despite his noticeable high fever, the Doctor's hands still weren't shaking. Something he'd be sure to point out in a few minutes, when he would assure him he'd be able to manage all his surgeries. Jack stayed beside him until he finished. The bandage was a bit crooked and he almost lost his balance when he stood up but yeah, he was _absolutely fine._

The Doctor lurched to his next patient following a painful coughing fit – _I'm wearing a mask!_ – eyes bright, flushed and febrile, and Jack had to remind himself that he unfortunately couldn't simply knock him out and put him in the boot of his car to drive him home by force. First, he had to stay here to look after the clinic if his boss was incapacitated. Second, said boss could hold grudges like you wouldn't believe. And third, he'd need a bloody strong instrument to soften his thick skull.

There was one solution he could think of, but it was far from perfect. The Doctor would most likely have a fit. Certainly an interesting spectacle to witness in his current keyed-up state. And the person he was thinking of calling might also disagree with his suggestion quite vehemently. He wasn't sure what the situation was between them at the moment, after all. But it was probably time to do something about it. And what better time than now? Because if there was one person in the whole world who would be able to drag the Doctor out of his practice, it was Clara.


	14. Chapter 14

She arrived half an hour after Jack's call. It had taken some convincing to persuade her to come and try to reason with the Doctor. Clara had pointed out that his aptly named doggedness meant that no one could change his mind once it was set on something. Even if this something meant risking his health. Because he didn't come first, his patients did.

She was right, of course. And she was also right when she called him a _bloody git_. As he was wondering whether their relationship was simply too rocky still and he had made a mistake by calling her, she sighed, and asked how bad he really was.

"I don't think he's been sleeping for the past two days. He's febrile, slurring his words and bumping into various pieces of equipment."

Jack wasn't overstating his point. He'd just seen his boss bump his head on the scialityc lamp he had finally dragged out of the operating theatre.

"Oh, God…"

"To be honest, I think it's just the flu, but he's not giving his body the rest it needs to recuperate."

"And you think _I_ 'd be able to convince him to go home? I'm sure you've tried every argument in the book, and you've known him for far longer than me."

"That may be so, but I think he might listen to you."

"Why?"

Dangerous territory, there. He needed to be careful. Jack hadn't had any heart to heart with the Doctor, lately. Not that they were exactly frequent. As far as he knew, Clara and him weren't back together. But from what he'd been told by a few observant (and prone to gossiping) nurses, he had been in far better spirits lately. Before getting sick, that is. So maybe they had started patching things up following Mycroft's poisoning and subsequent cure.

"He trusts you," he eventually settled on saying.

Clara didn't reply.

"And if worse comes to worse, you live across from him – I'll give him some propofol, put him in your car, and you'll just have to roll him home."

"It's a deal."

Now that she was there though, Clara had second thoughts. She had hoped to have a serious conversation with the Doctor when she got back from Backpool. If only to explain her behaviour, the previous week. And to apologise, even – in case she felt it was warranted. But in order to assess whether he was angry with her over what she knew could be seen as a selfish act, he had to be in a fit state. And when she saw him swaying from patient to patient in the ward, hunched shouldered and hair wild, she quickly realised he absolutely wasn't.

"You didn't tell me he was this bad!" she admonished Jack.

"I told you he was thisbad!"

"I thought you were exaggerating so that I'd feel forced to come here."

"Well, it worked, didn't it?"

"But he's a mess! Have you ever seen him like that?"

The Doctor had his back to her, listening to a nurse as he was approaching his next patient. He didn't seem to be able to talk to her and put one foot in front of the other at the same time.

"For God's sake, he can't even walk straight, you'd think he'd been drinking," she added, tempted to simply grab him by the back of his scrubs and frogmarch him home.

"It's the fever, and no, I have never seen him this bad. A few colds, yes. But you know him – he will always soldier on and pretend it's nothing."

"This _isn't_ nothing."

Colliding with the examination table as he finally got near.

"Did he see a doctor? A doctor for humans, I mean?" Clara specified.

"Yeah, Martha forced him yesterday. A guy from Norwich we know came. Prescribed antibiotics, prednisolone and rest."

"I imagine that went well."

"He refused to take the pills, saying it wasn't that bad. As for the rest…"

"That's why you called me."

A nod from Jack. The Doctor had sat down heavily on a stool on casters which rolled a fair few metres backwards.

"Tell me you're not expecting a miracle."

"Frankly, if you can simply get him out of here, that would be a big help. I can handle the practice for a few days without him. But with him in this state, I have to double check all his patients in case he makes a mistake."

"Has he?"

"No. And I know he probably won't, but he's bound to crash at one point and it won't be pretty."

The Doctor had finally noticed her. He smiled. That was a good start. He stood up and walked towards her. As he reached her, he seemed to realise that Jack had been standing next to her the whole time.

"What's he told you?" he asked, frowning. His eyebrows were somehow too heavy for his face to handle at the moment, and he ended up almost closing his eyes.

"Hello to you, too."

"Sorry. Hullo, Clara." Smiling once more. A silly smile.

"Your colleague asked me to come here to persuade you to go home and rest," she started, aiming for honesty but playing her cards carefully.

"Jack, for fuck's sake, I told you I was…"

"He didn't think I would be able to convince you," she interrupted. "He wagered I'd fail miserably. That I had no chance in hell to succeed."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep, and I thought that wasn't very nice of him."

"That wasn't very nice of him," he parroted back, close enough for her to tell that the curlier hair at the nape of his neck was glistening with sweat.

Jack was staying mum despite the false accusations. _Good, he'd caught on._

"So I told him he was wrong. And that I'd show him."

"You go, girl."

"That I'd win."

"Right."

"That he had no idea who he was dealing with and that I never take no for an answer."

"Amen to that."

"So let's go."

"What?"

"You're not going to make me lose my bet, right? I said I was going to take you home so that's what I'm going to do."

The twinkly eyes and fluttering eyelashes might have been overdoing it. But the Doctor was clearly not on top of his game and bought it, she could tell. He'd opened his mouth to argue with her, but no words came out. Probably because he couldn't think of any retort in his bewildered state, witty or otherwise.

"Where's Tardis? We can't leave without her," she added, softening the blow with the mention of his beloved dog.

"I'll get her, I'll meet you in the parking lot," offered Jack, exiting quickly with a grin on his face.

The Doctor didn't look resigned, exactly, but thankfully didn't put too much of a struggle and followed her docilely outside.

"Alright, maybe I could go home for a change of clothes and some kip. Then come back here for this evening's surgeries," he agreed.

"Sure," Clara hastily concurred. She'd have to come up with a new strategy to make him stay at his place longer – preferably asleep – but for now she'd settle on getting him in her car.

They were already out of the parking lot with Tardis in the back when the Doctor suddenly realised that he wasn't driving his own car.

"I'll drive you back, don't worry." _In about a week if I get my way_ , she didn't add.

Clara drove slowly. Taking the long way round for a smoother ride. The Doctor didn't seem to notice. He didn't seem to notice that the soothing sound of the engine lulled him to sleep a few minutes after they left the practice either.

When she parked across from her place twenty minutes later, she had made up her mind. Jack was smart, she'd grant him that. He'd known there was no way she'd simply abandon him once she had done her part of the job and drove him home. No matter how fragile and uncertain their relationship was at the moment. Not when he was in this state. She could almost feel the excess heat coming off in waves from his fidgeting form sitting next to her.

The Doctor opened his eyes once she turned off the engine, the silence waking him. He looked completely disoriented.

"Where…"

"I'll make you a deal," she interrupted.

He turned towards her in his seat. Coughed a few times and scared Tardis in the process. Scared _her_ in the process. That sounded nasty.

"I'll let you come in and feed you, but you have to take the medication the doctor prescribed."

Jack had helpfully provided the pills when he brought his boss's dog.

"I'm not hungry," he grumbled.

"I know, but you need to eat something. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out that your fridge is empty."

No answer.

It wasn't even four o'clock yet but the sun was already starting to set, making it more and more difficult for Clara to see him. But she could still hear the air whizzing as it left his lungs. Not a pretty sound either.

"You can tell this is pretty bad, you're not stupid. You can't even breathe properly," she told him more seriously.

The Doctor nodded reluctantly, which didn't seem to agree with his head since he started rubbing his temples in tight circles.

"Come in," she said, not waiting for his answer as she exited the vehicle and went inside her home.

The Doctor followed slowly. She locked her car with a practiced gesture and closed the front door behind him. Tardis was already happily reacquainting herself with Mycroft in the front room. She wouldn't have to worry about her, she was all set. Her owner, on the other hand…

He sat down heavily at the kitchen bar. Groaning, he lowered his forehead to the cool table top then stopped moving completely. Clara assumed he had fallen back to sleep as she retrieved some courgette soup she had made the previous day from the fridge. She warmed up a bowl on the stove, toasted some bread, and placed the small meal across from him. He raised his eyes to her at the noise and she found herself puzzled by their colour once more – she couldn't decide if they were blue or green. Somewhere in between. Grey, perhaps was the right term. She smiled at the memory it conjured. Early mornings with the sun shining through her blinds, pondering the very same question. If she concentrated really hard, she could even pretend it no longer hurt.

"First this," she declared, forcefully pushing the feeling away.

She had lined up three pills next to a glass of water.

"Our deal, remember? Antibiotics, prednisolone and aspirin for your fever."

The Doctor looked at the medicine guardedly, as if the small round pills would jump at him. Clara couldn't understand his reaction – he prescribed similar treatments to his patients everyday, and surely expected their owners to follow his instructions.

"When's the last time you had to take antibiotics?" she asked, as his soup was slowly but surely getting cold.

"Back home in Scotland shortly after I qualified, I think. I got pneumonia. I spent all my time outside treating cattle and sheep at the time."

"So decades ago. You can't be thinking you're taking them too often, then."

"Only a _couple_ of decades ago, don't make me sound older that I already am."

There was a small smile on his face as he said that, which Clara couldn't help but copy. The Doctor coughed hard a couple of times and shook his head. He was tired and in pain and she could tell he was about to capitulate. He reached out for the pills tentatively, hesitated for a few more seconds, then swallowed all three with his water, draining the glass in one go.

 _Happy, now?_ Seemed to say his eyes when he looked up. Clara gestured to his soup silently. He groaned, but picked up his spoon. The bowl emptied slowly – he was out of breath and had to stop at regular intervals.

"You can have the bread," he said halfway through.

She shrugged and picked at it, working up a plan for getting him to lie down next. He finally pushed the bowl away and rested his head on his forearms.

"Come on, you're not sleeping here all hunched up and uncomfortable," she announced, walking around the bar. His neck was still burning to the touch. She refrained from leaving her hand there too long.

The Doctor stood up groggily.

"Maybe a short nap," he agreed.

Clara gripped his elbow loosely as much to guide him as for preventing him from losing his precarious balance. She led him upstairs. Halfway up, he stopped.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting you to bed," she replied as though it was obvious.

"There's just the one bedroom."

"I know that. But I'd rather have you there than downstairs on the sofa since I have to work and you need some quiet," she answered, dodging the real meaning of his remark.

"You don't have to mother me," the Doctor grumbled.

"I'm not mothering you, I'm being your friend. Now come on, up."

That stopped any further complaints.

Since the sun had set, she didn't bother closing the blinds. She merely sat him on the mattress and helped him remove his shoes and top – he'd need a shower later, but for now she didn't trust him not to fall on his face and crack his skull on the tiles.

"I'll bring you some water and more aspirin, just lie down and rest."

There were a few grunted words of disagreement she didn't quite catch, but by the time she had placed the water and medicine on the bedside table, he was fast asleep underneath the comforter. Clara lingered for a minute, listening to his laboured breathing, then forced herself to exit the room, leaving the door open. She'd be able to hear him if he called for her. Or fell from the bed.

Clara checked up on him a couple of times during the rest of the day. He woke up at one point and asked shakily if it was evening already. She didn't have the heart to tell him it was past midnight and simply gave him another aspirin, water, and persuaded him to rest some more. It was surprisingly easy.

She took the dogs out for a quick walk – snow had stopped falling but it was bitingly cold – then made herself comfortable on her sofa bed downstairs. It was cosy and she didn't mind. She'd hesitated simply lying down next to the Doctor on the bed, but he was bound to have an uneasy rest and she didn't particularly wish to catch whatever tenacious bug he had. Still, that didn't stop her from waking up a few times during the night and make the short trek upstairs to make sure his fever wasn't worsening.

She called Jack mid morning to let him know she would try to keep him out of the practice for another day – he wished her luck, and promised that all was fine at work if his boss asked. And indeed, it was his first question when he woke up.

"Everything is going well, don't worry. Here, have some breakfast, you must be dehydrated," she said, depositing a small tray with orange juice and a bowl of oatmeal.

"Don't forget to take the pills first," she reminded him.

He grumbled and she gave him a lecture on how stopping his treatment so soon was plain stupid. The Doctor stopped complaining, remembering that her mum had been a nurse. Since it was pointless to argue with her, he did as he was told. It was easier all around and he felt too tired still to keep on protesting.

The Doctor announced proudly that he'd take one last kip after breakfast then go home. Except when he woke up again, it was mid-afternoon, and Clara was badgering him to take some more pills. Tired of being treated like a child, and perhaps just to push her buttons, he refused and got up – he needed to use the bathroom – but tripped on the edge of the comforter and barely managed to stop his fall. He wasn't sure if the noise coming from Clara was a groan or a chuckle. Something in between. Defeated, his arse on the ground and his back against the side of the mattress, he extended his hand and she dutifully placed his medicine in his open palm and offered him a glass of water.

"I'll help you to the bathroom if you want. Why don't you have a cool bath?"

More unintelligible groaning.

"It will do you some good. I'll swing by your place and pick up some clothes for you."

She sat him on the cool tiles following a few grunted expletives – one look at him and she knew that he wouldn't accept any more help – and admonished him not to drown in her absence.

Immersed in lukewarm water, the Doctor had to admit that she had been right – he did feel better. He was still shaky and congested, but resting had helped. To build his strength back, he knew he'd now need food. Something that was always on offer in this house. He sighed and let his mind wander – he couldn't believe he'd been there for more than a day already. He didn't feel guilty for not being at the practice, strangely – just immensely tired and relieved that Clara would put up with him despite his hostility.

She knocked on the door discreetly a few minutes later, letting him know that she'd put some clothes on the bed. He mumbled his thanks and resolved to behave better. More like a friend. Yeah, he could do that. He could be her friend. It was a good place to start again.


	15. Chapter 15

There were two sets of clothes waiting for him on the bed when he emerged from the bathroom. Black trousers and blue shirt or old jeans and an even older T-shirt of an obscure punk band he used to listen to in his youth. So work clothes or stay-at-home-doing-nothing clothes. Clara had allowed him to decide for himself. If he wanted to leave and go back to the practice right now, he could. Well, she'd have to drive him there, but the fact that the clothes were on the bed meant she would be okay with that. Probably. It didn't take the Doctor long to choose.

He walked downstairs carefully, his hand gripping the handrail – he was still a little unsteady. It was snowing outside and the sun was close to setting already, he noted.

"I didn't know I still had that T-shirt," he said, sitting down wearily on the sofa.

Clara was reading a book in her favourite armchair, which faced the window. Knowing her, she was probably being distracted by the falling snow and Mycroft's shenanigans on the carpet at her feet.

"How are you?" she asked, turning towards him.

Tardis had jumped on the sofa and was now requesting a couple days' worth of belly rubs.

"Good," he replied.

Coming downstairs had winded him, his head was pounding and he couldn't decide if he was too hot or too cold, but he could definitely feel an improvement from the last few days.

"You look a bit better," she agreed with a small smile that let him know she had seen right through him.

"Do you want some tea? I don't feel like dinner just yet."

"Sure, but you don't need to…"

"It's okay," she interrupted him, her hand lingering for just a few seconds on his neck as she walked past him.

The Doctor sighed, wishing for the hundredth time that he was done with this stupid virus already. Tardis seemed to understand that he wasn't at his best – she had curled up against his leg and allowed him to pet her at his leisure. The soothing motion must have also had an effect on him, because the next time he opened his eyes, Clara was placing a teapot and chocolate cake on the table.

"I can't believe I'm sleeping so much," he grumbled.

"You probably have a few years' worth of sleepless nights to go through," she pointed out.

The Doctor slid to the floor so that he could have his tea at the table. He didn't trust his hands not to shake.

"Thanks, Clara," he told her sincerely once she'd poured him a cup. It was piping hot and with a slice of lemon, just the way he liked it. He didn't even frown at the pills placed on the saucer and swallowed them without a word.

She acknowledged his thanks and cut him a piece of cake.

"It probably won't help with your fever, but I know that's the only way you'll have your tea."

The Doctor nodded, and tried to pace himself. Eating and drinking was hard work at the moment.

Mycroft and Tardis requested cake as well, and Clara, being who she was, caved easily. But contrary to him, they didn't have seconds.

"Do you need to get back to work?" he asked, full and sleepy once more. He had planned on at least dragging himself back to his house after tea, but it now seemed like an unrealistic expectation.

"For a couple of hours, yeah. I have a proofreading to complete. It's a good time period, Christmas – less work, but fewer linguists available, so the pay is good."

"I'll let you work in peace," the Doctor said, wondering how long it'd take him to cross the road and make it back to his house in the snow. Jesus, it was ridiculous. He needed to bear up and behave like a grown-up.

"Kip on the sofa, I don't mind. But if you start snoring too loudly I'm sending you back upstairs."

So Clara wasn't planning on kicking him out anytime soon. If he wasn't seconds away from falling back to sleep, he would have taken a few minutes to appreciate this feeling he had dearly missed. Feeling like he belonged here. With her. That he was wanted. Instead, he laboriously climbed back onto the couch and curled up next to Tardis. Clara placed a quilt on top of him, and the last thing he remembered was her cool hand on his forehead.

The next thing he remembered was being shaken awake. He struggled to open his eyes. Even in his bleary state, he could see the worry on Clara's face.

"What? Was I snoring?" he slurred, thinking he'd only been asleep for a few minutes.

"You were calling for me. Something about the house being on fire."

"The cats were setting the house on fire," he remembered, panic assailing him once more.

"What cats?" Clara asked, not mocking him, bless her.

"The neighbourhood's cats," he replied very seriously.

He'd probably laugh at this later, but for now his dream still felt very real. Clara's hand on his neck felt wonderfully cool and he tried to get his breath back.

"Your fever's returned," she pointed out unnecessarily. Only high fever could produce such delirious dreams.

"I'll get some paracetamol. Might be a good idea to switch from the aspirin."

The Doctor nodded, but wished she had stayed a little longer. He had kicked the quilt down and his T-shirt was drenched in sweat. Tardis was on the floor looking at him anxiously. He hoped he hadn't kicked her down as well.

He sat up slowly, feeling the room spinning. It was now pitch dark outside and probably several hours since he'd fallen asleep.

Clara came back with the pills and a glass of water.

"I don't have a thermometer but you might be over 40°. I'm not sure how much paracetamol you can take. Would 2g be too much, you think? We should call a doctor."

She was not just worried, she was scared. The Doctor felt terrible and he tried to reassure her.

"The fever will go down. It's just a relapse due to a lower level of cortisol in the body during the evening," he explained. He swallowed three pills, drained the glass of water, and willed himself to calm down, if only to reassure Clara.

"The fact that you're still able to give me a scientific explanation probably means you're okay," she realised, sighing heavily in relief.

The Doctor nodded, and rested his head against the back of the sofa. His muscles were stiff and achy and he longed for a reprieve. As tough his anguish was plain to see – and it probably was – Clara's hand found its way back to his forehead and remained there long after she would have had the time to check that his temperature hadn't gone down yet.

"Why do this to yourself? It wouldn't have been this bad if you'd stopped working sooner."

Her tone was reproachful, but her palm over his brow kept on soothing him calmly in languid strokes.

"I don't know," he replied honestly, his eyes closed. Telling her that he had done so because they were short-staffed and he felt responsible wouldn't have worked. It was an excuse, not an explanation.

"I've been running after something lately, but I'm not sure what it is," he started again. Clara's hand had moved to his hair. She stayed silent – not pushing him to talk, and not preventing him from falling back to sleep if that's what he wanted to do. But he felt like talking – the fever was probably loosening his tongue and he knew he wouldn't have many opportunities such as this one in the future. Opportunities to come clean and give voice to his fears.

"It's different, at work. Has been for a while, now. I can't really put my finger on it. It's like…"

He sighed, gathering his thoughts. Despite his ringing ears and pounding head, things had never looked quite as clear as they did now.

"It's like it's not there, anymore. My passion, calling – whatever you want to call it. Getting an animal out of pain, seeing it walk again for the first time after an operation…that used to fuel me for weeks. That used to be my drug. Allowing me to go on day after day on little food and sleep. And now…"

A pause. He could almost touch it. The cause behind all this.

"I feel like I've been pushing myself too hard on purpose. Just to see if I could get that feeling back. But it's _not_ coming back. And I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about it. It's like part of me died," he concluded.

He felt Clara move closer to him on the sofa. Curling her legs under her to be at the same level as him. The Doctor opened his eyes and turned towards her. She looked at him intently. Her right hand in his hair and her left against his heart, hammering against his chest.

"I'm not an expert, but it does sound a bit like a burnout, Doctor."

"A burnout?" he repeated, thinking the idea ludicrous. He knew he was slightly depressed – he'd suffered from regular bouts of it all his life – but a burnout? That was only for over-stressed telemarketing agents and brokers. Not doctors and vets. Right?

"Maybe you need a break. A real break. And to take things slow for a while. Quality over quantity, and all that."

That sounded reasonable. He wasn't sure _how_ he'd manage to go on a break, but after all, Jack had been insisting for about five years that he needed a holiday. And there was one person he definitely wanted with him on said holiday. But they needed to fix whatever their relationship was at the moment before he could ask her something like that.

"What time is it?" he inquired, changing the subject.

"A little after ten," Clara replied. She hadn't moved from her current spot and he closed his eyes again, feeling completely safe.

"Let's take the dogs to the beach, tomorrow morning."

He heard Clara smile. Funny how he could always tell that without actually seeing it.

"If the snow doesn't let up, it's going to be tricky. And we can't take them off lead at the moment – the beach is almost covered with grey seals and their pups."

That's right, he'd forgotten about that. December at Horsey beach was a wonderful spectacle indeed. And he'd missed it.

"We can go next weekend," she suggested.

The Doctor nodded, happy about the prospect.

"Tomorrow's Monday, right?" he wondered out loud. He was completely out of phase with reality.

"Yep," she concurred.

"Sorry for ruining your weekend," he replied half jokingly.

"That's alright. I'm sure I can reschedule my hot date."

The Doctor opened his eyes again and saw her impish smile.

"Too soon?" she inquired.

"I deserved that," he groaned, "I deserve way worse than that, really."

Clara laughed, but he could tell it was a bit forced.

"Tell me one thing, though." Pensive, now. "Are you actually really into blondes?"

"Am I into…what?"

She was joshing him again, right?

"Stands to reason, me asking this. I saw a big breasted blonde bimbo coming out of your house a couple of weeks ago. What am I supposed to think?"

Clara was dead serious.

"How can you ask something like that? Of course not, it was just…"

"I'm allowed to have doubts, you idiot," she cut in harshly, tightening her grip on his hair, then regretted her words.

"Sorry, didn't mean to snap at you. Now's not the right time to have this conversation, you need to rest."

The Doctor sighed heavily. The notorious _conversation_ they had been supposed to have for days, now. It would never be the right time, would it?

"That's okay. And yes, you're allowed to have doubts, I didn't mean to imply you didn't. To be honest, I don't even remember what she looked like. And I'm not saying that to be glib, it's the actual truth. I guess it was one more unsuccessful attempt at pretending I could go back to the way things were. And it failed. And I'm so sorry."

"Was it something you used to do a lot? Sleeping with random women?" she asked, frowning.

"If by 'a lot' you mean every couple of years, then yes."

Clara raised her eyes at that.

"Is it a lot?" he wondered, misunderstanding her reaction. "I guess you were right the first time, then - I'm just a bloke."

"You are many things, Doctor. But 'just a bloke' isn't one of them."

He couldn't tell if he was supposed to take this as a compliment or not.

"And if you're just a bloke, then I'm no better. I used you as well, and I feel terrible," she admitted in a rush.

"You didn't use me."

"What else would you call it? I practically pounced on you and left without a word before you woke up."

"I certainly didn't feel used," the Doctor replied. "I mean yeah, I would have loved to have you next to me the next morning, but other than that, if you feel like _using_ me again anytime soon, feel free to do it. You might have to wait until I'm a bit better, though."

Clara blushed. And the Doctor knew from experience it took a lot to make her cheeks pink up.

"So you're not angry with me?"

"Are you kidding?"

"God, I don't know what got into me, that night. I just felt like… Like I couldn't let _her_ be the last woman you slept with. Isn't that awful?"

The Doctor shook his head, smiling. She had stopped stroking his hair and he missed the feeling.

"We should go to bed. It's early, but I'm beat. You probably are, as well," she uttered after almost a minute of silence.

"You're not hungry?"

"I had too much cake," she admitted. "You?"

"Not hungry either. Just thirsty," he confessed.

"I'll get you some juice, you need sugar."

She came back with a bottle of orange juice and held her empty hand to him.

"Come on, I'll help you upstairs."

"It's okay, you take the bed tonight, I'll stay here."

"No, we'll both take the bed tonight," she replied, resolute.

"Are you sure? I might still be contagious," he warned her.

"It's too late to do anything about that. If I'm sick, I'm sick. Now come on, up we go."

His fever had gone down enough for him to manage a quick shower unattended, and it felt good to slip into clean scrub trousers and even better to slip into bed next to Clara.

"Are you still thinking about moving?" he asked, gripped by anxiety just as his eyes started to close. Home at last next to her but for how long?

"If I was to move, I think I would have done so already. You're stuck with me as your neighbour for the time being."

"Pity," he replied, incapable of hiding his grin.

"I missed you too," the Doctor heard her whisper just before he succumbed to sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Sorry about the delay. I thought this would be the last chapter, but there's still one more to come before I'm ready to say goodbye (for now at least) to the characters. Thank you for your continued support on this little story I had feared would be too quirky for publishing.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, the Doctor was certain of two things - his fever had broken, most likely for good, and Clara was still next to him. She hadn't left the bed. Opening his eyes, he found her staring at him. Intently.

"Was I snoring again?" he asked, his voice scratchy with sleep.

Clara replied with a slow smile.

"No, I went down like a rock. It's so quiet outside. The world seems to be wrapped in cotton wool."

"It must have snowed all night," he inferred.

"How do you feel?"

"Better, I think."

"You do sound better," she agreed.

He nodded, glad that the movement was no longer causing his head to pound mercilessly.

"Give yourself one more day," Clara added, and the Doctor could tell she wasn't only suggesting this for his own benefit.

"I'll call Jack to make sure it's fine," he hedged. He liked the prospect of spending one more day with her, but he couldn't consciously agree to it without checking first that the clinic wasn't overflowing with new cases.

"And I'll go make some breakfast," she said, although she had yet to move.

Being the object of such careful scrutiny should have been unnerving. But the Doctor could still remember her words, from not so long ago - _It's hard for me to look at you_. The fact that she no longer avoided his gaze had to be a good thing. And he was in desperate need of a few good things in his life.

They finally dragged themselves out of bed and realised that their prediction regarding snow was correct – the world was almost completely white outside. The top of the trees, the grass, the neighbourhood's roofs. Even the sky was more white than grey – the sure sign of more snow to come.

Jack was quick to reassure him that all was quiet at the practice. No new emergencies, and no surgeries that the other vets couldn't handle. Basically, he was telling him he shouldn't feel guilty for not coming. The Doctor didn't need his colleague's authorization for that – and indeed, he had never asked for it - but it did make a difference, strangely.

He shuffled to the kitchen, greeting the dogs on his way. Snow or no snow, they'd want to go out sooner rather than later. Something he wasn't exactly looking forward to given how stiff and sore pretty much all his muscles still felt.

As though she'd been reading his mind, Clara announced she'd take Mycroft and Tardis for a walk after breakfast. They would then have to make do with the small back garden for the rest of the day if they felt like going out in the snow. And they probably would.

The Doctor hadn't felt this hungry in a while, and he took it as one more sign that the nasty virus that had plagued him was finally letting go of his battered immune system. Still, he forced himself to slow down eating his scrambled eggs – part of him wondered if Clara would kick him out once she realised he was no longer sick. All this despite what they had shared the previous night.

He still marvelled that he had been able to say all those things to her. Things he had wanted to share with someone for a long time. This bout of fever might have been an unexpected godsend, even if he still had a hard time convincing himself that it had been a judicious decision to voice his feelings.

"About our talk last night…" he started, once his plate was empty.

"You regret it?" she quickly surmised, hiding her disappointment carefully, which crushed him.

"No, not at all," he replied, aware that he now had to choose his words wisely.

"I had been carrying that weight around for a long time. And I realise that I should have said something sooner. About work. About what it's been like, lately. I shouldn't have kept it to myself."

He paused, seeing that Clara was staring at him once again. Was that disbelief on her face or just surprise?

"I don't know about the burnout thing," he acknowledged, "but I think I'll follow your advice and take things slow for a little while."

Clara nodded, absorbing his words. She drank some more coffee and seemed to hesitate. There was something else on her mind.

"What?" he prompted.

"And the holiday?" she finally asked.

"Still debating that. Might have a word with Jack on the subject, when I get the chance," he replied.

"That would be nice. Going somewhere warm," Clara voiced, not giving him any clue if she was including herself in the sunny prospect, the cheeky minx. Guess he'd have to push a little harder. Instead of worrying him, the realisation made him smile. That was a challenge he'd gladly take on.

For all his assurance that he was indeed better, by the time Clara came back from taking the dogs on their walk, he was on the living room sofa, struggling not to fall asleep once more. Not well enough to go back to work, yet no longer capable of justifying his presence at her house – between a rock and a hard place, really. She'd want to work in peace today, and rightly so. But he also knew that if he went home, he wouldn't last two hours before calling a taxi or a colleague to take him to the practice.

His dilemma was thankfully short lived. Clara offered to accompany him across the road to pick up warmer clothes. And the treats she knew Tardis liked but unfortunately didn't have herself, and which he kept in a drawer in the kitchen.

Breathing the freezing outside air for the first time in days proved quite a struggle. His bruised lungs simply refused to expand completely and he coughed all the way to his house, a worried Clara gripping his elbow tightly. The Doctor knew it was a normal reaction, yet he felt immensely relieved to find himself back in Clara's warm and welcoming front room a little while later, armed with a few sweaters, dog biscuits, and several veterinary journals which he would try to look over - if he ever managed to drag himself back up, that is.

"Lie down on the sofa, at least," she admonished.

The Doctor shook his head.

"The hard floor is helping," he affirmed. All that coughing had done an awful number on his back. He was relieved to have elected not to go to the clinic – he wouldn't have lasted an hour in surgery hunched over a patient, at this rate.

"This is perfect, trust me. Don't mind me if you want to work," he assured her frowning form, standing over him. He closed his eyes and willed his spine to stop acting up.

When he opened his eyes again a few minutes later, Clara was sitting in the armchair, reading a book.

"Not working?" he inquired from his spot on the floor.

"Not until this afternoon, no."

"Can you pass me those journals there, then?" he asked, pointing at the small pile he had dropped on the coffee table before lying down and which was now out of his reach.

"You're going to read those on the floor?"

"Sure. I do my best research lying down on the floor."

"You can't be comfortable."

"I am!"

Clara shook her head, mystified, but stretched out her leg to push the journals down with her foot. The heavy periodicals just missed his head.

"Thanks."

He wasn't sure if her aim had been purposeful. Knowing her, it had probably been the case.

"You're welcome."

Clara eventually had the last word on the matter when Mycroft and Tardis barged in half an hour letter, their icy snouts connecting with his exposed neck. He didn't need Clara telling him they'd just been outside – his almighty squeal was proof enough.

The rest of the day passed slowly. And it should have felt like any other lazy Sunday he might have spent with her back when they were together, but it didn't. For starters, it was a Monday, and he was missing work, which hadn't happened in years. Ill or not, he would have been at the practice if it wasn't for her. As though Clara could tell how special – though underwhelming – the day was, she had declared herself to be on a break from work, and pushed the deadlines of her ongoing projects.

"Don't you ever wish we were more like dogs?" he asked out of the blue, during the afternoon.

They were both pretending to read – him lying on the floor once more, her on the sofa above him – their eyes following the movements of their pets, playfully chasing each other around the furniture.

"In what way?"

"It's like they have a sixth sense about each other. Tardis and Mycroft have been friends since they met. But they could have just as easily decided not to. I've never heard of dogs having a falling out. When they're friends, it's for life."

"Maybe we _are_ more like dogs than you think," she cryptically answered.

As he was contemplating how to ask her if he could stay one more night – after all, she was supposed to drive him to work the next morning, so it made sense, right? – she took the decision out of his hands when she enrolled him to help her cook dinner.

The Doctor slept soundly once more. A good thing, since he needed to be rested for work, yet he couldn't help but wishing he'd been able to relish the situation more. To take the time to realise how lucky he might once again be if he played his cards right.

Clara suggested he should come for dinner when she dropped him off at the practice the next morning. If he didn't finish too late, of course. He had vowed to take things slower. Not showing up would be seen as him going back on his words. So he planned his day accordingly. Planned his whole week accordingly. And to his surprise, it was far easier than he had anticipated.

"So you're back together?" asked Jack a few days later after they had pulled an all-nighter for New Year's Eve. The first in a little while for him, which was short of a miracle.

"What makes you say that?" the Doctor countered, curious to learn how he had reached that conclusion.

The practice was quiet. They didn't have that much to do during the night, but he had insisted to be there to give other vets the chance to celebrate the New Year with family. Clara was in London with friends, so nothing had held him back from making that decision. She had texted him throughout the evening, supposedly to check up on Mycroft – who was probably causing mayhem with Tardis somewhere in the premises under the not so watchful eyes of nurses and auxiliaries – but really to make sure he wasn't overdoing it. He'd been quick to reassure her as well as enjoining her to have a nice time and stop fussing over him.

"You've been keeping almost human hours, this past week. Delegating tasks you should have been delegating for years. And I'm pretty sure you had help to come up with this decision."

He'd gone to Clara's every evening. Just for dinner each time – not that he was complaining – and she had helped him make sense of his days and order his thoughts over his consultations and surgeries. Listened to his misgivings and doubts. Maybe that was what Jack meant when he asked if they were back together. Yet it wasn't a return to the past. It was something brand new, he could tell.

"I'm spending more time with her, yeah," he agreed.

"So you've decided, then."

"Decided what?"

"To be happy."

It was strange, hearing it phrased like that. But in a way it was true. Happiness was a choice. Happiness wasn't something that was simply thrust into your arms. You had to accept it. Come to terms with it.

The Doctor had another epiphany a few days later, when Amy came to visit the practice with her now three-month old daughter. Remembering how wary he had been the first time she had placed the infant in her boss's arms, the Doctor had to convince her to let him give it another go.

"I won't drop her," he promised, seeing how much more active the baby now was.

"I know you won't," she concurred, placing River in his arms. For it was River, now. Not just a baby. With her wide open eyes that were following all his movements carefully and her very real grip on his finger. The Doctor smiled, transfixed.

"She's smiling back to me!" he marvelled, utterly stunned that he could generate such an emotion in a child so young.

"Yeah, she's just starting to smile," Amy said.

It hit him as he was cradling wee River how close he'd come to lose everything for good. His passion. His sanity. His future. And how easy it would be to lose them once more, if he wasn't careful. Happiness was a very fragile thing. Look away one second and it could be gone forever.

"Are you okay?" his intern asked. He hadn't realised he'd been crying silently all this time, and quickly wiped his cheeks with his hand. He didn't want to relinquish the baby just yet – he wasn't done observing her.

"Yeah, don't worry. Just tired, that's all," he said, quite incapable of explaining his reaction.

After a few more minutes, he finally handed River back to her mum, who placed her in her pram. She was now munching on her hand, and the Doctor didn't need a degree in early childhood care to understand that she would soon be demanding food.

"You don't have to come back to work next week, you know," he started. "If you want to take a few more weeks or even the whole year off, just do it, you'll always have your place here."

Amy smiled warmly.

"Thank you, Doctor. That means a lot. But I want to come back. And we found a really nice nanny."

"If you ever need anything, just ask me. We'll work something out."

"I appreciate it, thank you."

"Some things are just…" He paused. "Some things are just more important than others, aren't they?"

When he went home to Clara that evening – because that was exactly what it felt like – he knocked instead of using his key.

"Doctor?" Frowning in surprise, opening the door.

He didn't reply. Instead, he bent down, cradled her face in his hands and kissed her. And when she didn't stop him and placed her hands over his, he kissed her again.

"Can I stay?" he asked, his heart in his mouth. This wasn't about dinner. This wasn't about staying the night, even. It was more than that. A lot more. And he could read in Clara's eyes that she understood what his request meant. All that it encompassed.

"Yes."


	17. Chapter 17

Waking up the next morning as a cold blue dawn made itself known behind the curtains, the Doctor was gripped by two utterly opposite feelings. Joy like he had never quite experienced before for finding himself next to Clara, and fear that it would all go away in a blink of an eye. Perhaps that was what caring for someone so much felt like. Perhaps he'd navigate the rest of his life in limbo. But when she opened her eyes, the Doctor started to wonder. Surely fear wouldn't survive being stared down by such beauty. Fear didn't stand a chance.

"How did you sleep?" she whispered, her hand sliding over his chest.

"Great," he lied, hopefully with conviction.

In truth, he'd woken up several times during the night to make sure she was still there. Stupid, he knew – she was in her own bed in her own home, she probably wouldn't go anywhere. But it had been impossible to ignore the small voice at the back of his head reminding him that he couldn't take her for granted. Each time his eyes opened, he had reached out for her, careful not to wake her in the process. Made sure that her back was against his chest. Made sure that she could feel him next to her in a vain attempt to persuade her not to leave him.

She smiled then. And her smile tore through almost all his misgivings. There was no mistaking that smile. She looked like the memory he'd never really tried to forget. Yet she wasn't a memory. She was real. Warm under his fingertips and lips. Clara answered his kiss with one of hers and for a moment he almost forgot about his unease. Deep down though, the Doctor knew there was no point going forward if he wasn't absolutely sure.

"Will you hate me now?" he asked before he lost himself in her touch.

Clara's small hands were on his neck, her thumbs over his pulse point. His heart was beating so fast that it was impossible not to notice. She raised her eyebrows in question, warm brown plunging into blue.

"You said that if we stayed together, you might start hating me," the Doctor added, remembering her confession word for word.

Her hands travelled to his chin, his temples, his hair, then back to framing his face.

"I don't hate you. I could never hate you," she replied. "I'd rather have some of you than none of you. I tried and it doesn't work."

"What about all of me?"

"All of you?"

"Yes."

"Scary thought," she quipped, and he couldn't help but grin despite the serious turn their conversation had taken because of him.

"You haven't let me have all of you," she pointed out correctly.

"I know, and that was a mistake," the Doctor said, closing his eyes.

"Mmh, maybe not," Clara mused, her fingers lightly resting over his frowning brow. "Maybe you just needed to play hard to get."

"You don't believe that," he objected.

"I believe that you consciously prevented me from getting too close." Her tone was sobering, yet her touch light and soothing.

The Doctor opened his eyes to find her staring at him. Not in anger or sadness. Not in reproach or disappointment. He was almost certain he knew the feeling behind her gaze – he'd seen it before – but it was best not to acknowledge it at the moment.

"What about now?" he asked.

"You tell me."

"I'm not holding anything back. I can't. I won't," he vowed.

"Prove it."

The Doctor kissed her, then. Slowly at first. His lips journeying from her lips, to her cheeks, to her neck. Never stopping for long. Her shoulders, her arms, her chest. Never where she wanted him the most. Her belly, her thighs, her knees. Pouring all his adoration and his love. Before he could reach her feet, Clara pushed herself up on the bed and grabbed his hair.

"Alright, you idiot, I get it," she groaned, "now get back up there."

He smiled and obliged, his lips finding hers easily once more, settling his weight above her, with his forearms on either side of her face. Being this close to her had never been so effortless or felt so natural. There was no going back from this, he realised. It was both the first time and the last time he would ever make love to her. The last time as the man he used to be before she came into his life. The first time as the man he wanted to become for her. The man she trusted him to become.

If there were tears in his eyes at the end, it wasn't because he was mourning his former self. It was because he had never expected he'd be able to change. And that the transformation would feel so seamless.

They did go on their holiday, eventually. With next to no effort, the Doctor managed to clear two weeks at the end of January. He wouldn't say that Jack and his staff _actively_ pushed him out of his own practice, but it was close. When the Doctor asked her where she wanted to go, Clara answered that she longed for some sun. As it turned out, a warm place in January wasn't that hard to come by. Or that far, even.

In four hours, they flew from London to Tenerife. Minimum of twenty degrees, quiet beaches and breath-taking sceneries. So sunny that Clara was able to test her theory that the Doctor's supposedly "untanable" blue skin could actually bronze. When they grew tired of the beach, they went to Teide National Park, Anaga, and Teno. But mostly, they did nothing. The big difference was that they did nothing together. The holiday was about learning and relearning who they were, away from the practice and their responsibilities. He itched to call work on the first day, but one look at Clara in her sundress and he found himself hard-pressed to remember why they hadn't done something similar sooner. For someone who hadn't taken more than a couple of days off in the last fifteen years, the Doctor certainly got used to the feeling fast, which Clara was quick to point out when he would refuse to leave the bed before ten.

They flew home on a Sunday afternoon. Clara was tired by the journey and only wanted to rest until she had to work the next day, but she could see that the Doctor had other ideas, and she didn't have the heart to dissuade him.

"Go check on your precious clinic, it's alright," she urged, thinking that she could definitely do with a nap before she started sorting out the laundry – and it would be far easier to rest without the Doctor hanging around.

"You sure?" he asked, managing – just – not to bounce off the walls. Travelling truly caused opposite reactions in them.

"Yes," she pressed, capitulating and lying down on the sofa, her suitcase abandoned. "But if Mycroft isn't here by noon tomorrow, I'm fetching him myself," she added.

Mycroft and Tardis had stayed at the practice for the last two weeks. The safest place for them, where they had probably been spoiled rotten by the staff.

"I'll be back before that," he promised.

Clara nodded, watching him leave. It was nice to see him genuinely excited about going to work – he wasn't doing it out of misplaced obligation, he _wanted_ to go.

"Leave your bag here, it's easier," she said when she saw him hesitate to take it.

Before he opened the door, he turned back.

"Just let me nap in peace already," she mocked.

The Doctor smiled and walked towards her to lean over the back of the couch.

"Do you think you could help me, with my house?"

"Help you with what?"

"Making it a bit homelier. A bit more like your place, say."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I was thinking of clearing up some old stuff. Maybe limit my research material and veterinary journals to one room and move the rest to my office at the practice or in storage."

"Big decision," Clara realised.

"I want to make it nicer to live in. It's got potential, I think, with your help."

"It does," she agreed simply.

He nodded, satisfied, kissed her forehead and left.

Clara smiled when the door closed. He probably thought he was being subtle – but the Doctor didn't do subtle. He was, and always would be, blindingly obvious. That would be one less subject of conversation she would have to broach herself, she thought. Good. His house was three times the size of hers and had a much bigger garden. Yet they spent all their time at _her_ place. True, his was a bit cluttered and needed a few improvements – number one being a bathtub – but living together was the next logical step. He had practically moved in already and he spent an inordinate length of time for a man in her small bathroom. Having two would be ideal. And she'd already started fantasising about what she could do with his enormous kitchen. All in all, it would make their lives easier. They'd have enough room for both their dogs, and enough space to brood in peace when needed – which was bound to happen.

Regarding what to do with her house, she already had an idea. Even if she would live across the street, she realised it would actually be good to separate her living place from her working place. Through Amy, she had met a couple of freelance journalists who were looking for a co-working space in the region. Her home could easily be turned into such a place. And it would give her time to figure out if she wanted to sell it.

Clara didn't expect him to show up until the next day, and indeed he even sent her a text during the evening to apologise for not being able to make it. That was new, but not unwelcome. She went to bed thinking that she'd probably have to drive to the practice herself to get Mycroft back, and deep down she didn't really mind. The Doctor was bound to have quite a lot on his plate at work, and she'd be able to enlist Jack's help in making sure his boss wasn't overdoing it once more.

Picture her surprise when she was woken up the next morning by enthusiastic licks.

"Mycroft!" she marvelled, still half asleep, as her dog made sure that her face was covered in slobber.

Clara smiled and hugged her fury friend. He'd jumped on the bed and she decided not to give him hell about it – she'd missed him too much.

"I didn't expect to see you so early," she said, seeing the Doctor in the background with Tardis in his arms. He simply smiled in answer.

"Did you sleep at all?" Clara asked.

"Yeah, for a few hours, I'm good."

Not waking up next to her that morning had felt weird. "Weird" as in he certainly didn't want to experience it too often moving forward.

"Ready to go to the beach? It's almost seven."

Clara grumbled, not wanting to admit that she had also got used to late mornings, these past two weeks.

"I made coffee," he offered, knowing that would help his case.

"Give me ten minutes, and a cup of coffee" she muttered, getting up. "Make that two," she added, Mycroft following her out.

Early February and the beach was once more entirely theirs and no longer a hazard for the dogs to be taken off lead – the grey seal pups had taken to the sea. Mycroft and Tardis definitely approved, and they observed them run to the water, bundled up in their coats. Tenerife it wasn't.

"When do you have to get back to the practice?" Clara asked, planning the day ahead in her mind.

"Not until this afternoon," the Doctor replied, to her surprise. "What about you, how's your day looking?"

"I've accepted a couple of small translation projects," Clara answered quickly. "How come you only have to go back this afternoon?" she pressed.

"I'm experimenting with a new schedule," he explained. "I'll consult every other day instead of every day so that I can be in theatre earlier. Apart from emergencies, this means I should stop having to operate in the evenings. It was getting a bit taxing on the staff."

 _And on you,_ Clara added to herself.

"And I need to sort out my house, I don't want to delay this."

"I want a bathtub in the upstairs bathroom and a counter in the kitchen," she announced, deciding there was no point pretending why he wanted to make changes at his place.

The Doctor gave her a slow smile, shuffling his feet.

"Anything you want," he replied in a small voice, quite shy all of a sudden.

"Careful what you're offering," Clara quipped half-jokingly.

"I know what I'm doing."

She nodded, seeing the resolution on his face.

"You should start with that garage of yours, it's a mess. I'm sure you could put some of the stuff you want to keep there, once it's a bit cleared up."

She had a point, and he refrained from groaning. The amount of junk he'd accumulated over the years was just silly.

"But don't get rid of the motorcycle, yeah? I want to ride it with you one day, when the weather's better," she announced.

He did a double take. It turned out she could still surprise him. That wasn't something he'd expected from her, but there you go.

"Anything you want," he repeated, grinning this time.

They had now reached the water's edge, their dogs running in circles around each other, not caring how cold it was.

"How do you see yourself in a few years?" Clara finally had the courage to ask. In a way, this was the ultimate test.

He shrugged, but didn't look to put off or taken aback by her question.

"Growing old. Well, old _er_ ," he smirked, "with you. A few dogs. Maybe more."

"More dogs?" she teased, even though she knew exactly what he meant.

He blushed and looked at her. Clara smiled serenely in answer.

"What about you?" the Doctor queried in turn.

Before she could answer, Mycroft and Tardis had bounded towards them, and proceeded to shake the water off their fur right in front of them. They were drenched in seconds and the Doctor laughed heartily whilst Clara groaned. The happiness shining on his face gave her pause.

"Well, one thing for sure would be to see that smile more often," she declared, coming closer. "The one that puts dips in your cheeks right there," Clara added, her hands showing what she meant. "It makes you look about five."

The Doctor hugged her close, being at a loss for words and wishing to hide his face.

"I found out something at the practice last night," he announced after he'd released her.

"What?"

"I was looking at old charts from a dog I operated on a while ago. And when I checked the date I remembered I was coming out of his surgery the morning I met you on the beach. On a Sunday exactly a year ago."

"So that's why you wanted to come here this morning…" Clara understood.

He nodded, somewhat sheepish.

"Who knew you were such a romantic?" she marvelled, hooking her arm around his to make the journey back and to cut his grumblings regarding her comment short.

Once they reached the end of the beach, they called their dogs, who came without too much complaint. The sun has risen above the clouds, making Clara pensive.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Growing up in Blackpool, we got used to watching the sun set. When my mum got sick, near the end, she asked for some sunrises instead. So we came to Norfolk not far from here for a holiday. She died a couple of months later, but it's still a great memory. She was so happy, here. And until today, I'd never really understood what she meant about sunrises. But now I think I get it."

She sighed and clipped Mycroft back on his leash. There was no sadness in her despite what she'd just shared, he could tell.

"Let's go home?" he suggested, offering her his arm once more.

"Yes," she agreed, gripping his elbow gently, "let's go home."

* * *

A/N: We've finally reached the end - thank you for sharing this journey with me. Your comments and encouragements have been lovely, proving that despite my apprehension, this little story had its place.


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